The Hunters and the Hawk
by Admiral von Cha-Cha
Summary: Pre-movie. Treachery beyond the Wall leads five enemies to unite. As they travel deep into the Woad heartlands, alliances are made and broken; and Tristran discovers that the truest friends can be found in the most unlikely places.
1. Brothers and Blood

**A/N: Sooo… I got to thinking about some of the unexplained and, frankly, rather **_**mysterious**_** characters in King Arthur; such as the Woad that Arthur spares when defending Bishop Germanius, and the traitor who helped the Saxons. Who are they? Well, here's an attempt at explaining them, with a bit more added in. Though I'm not rushing into anything, there'll be some Tristran x OC, and another Knight x OC. Btw, if you think I've rated it too low (it can sometimes be a bit violent) do tell me! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own King Arthur. Just in case you were wondering.**

**Thoughts are in **_**italics. **_**The x-o-x-o etc are line-breaks. The POV will swap around sometimes, but it should be easy to follow (tell me if it's not). Please do send me a review telling me what you think / liked / didn't like / found utterly and totally confusing! This will be a multi-chapter fic (well, hopefully). **

**Onwards, dear readers! Tally-ho, and all that. **

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**Chapter One: Brothers and Blood**

The twelve men rode through the heavy mist that obscured the path, making no sound but for the clink of their armour and the hoofbeats of their horses. They were heavily armed, but that was to be expected. The further north they rode of Hadrian's Wall, the more hostile the landscape became. Or rather, its inhabitants.

At the back of the line, a huge dapple-grey horse trotted along, its dead master strapped over its back. The horse's steps were nervous, flighty, despite its great size. The body was wrapped in a wool blanket, mottled and stained with dried blood, torn in some places. It was near the end of winter, but no matter how much they esteemed their dead comrade, the other riders could not spare a thick mantle to cloak his broken body.

For broken it was. Dreadfully. Gaheris had not been killed neatly; his killers hacking and slicing wherever their swords and spears could penetrate. It had not been a quick death, either, and it certainly had not been painless. Their brother had died alone amidst the screams and gore of battle, with no one to kneel beside him and speak the prayer to guide him home. It was almost more than Gawain could bear.

He rode along in deep thought, his dead brother's horse tied to his own with a long rope. It was not long until they arrived back at the Wall, but the body was starting to smell vaguely off despite the cold weather. He still could not believe that the limp, shrouded corpse was Gaheris. His brother by blood, three hours older than himself. His playmate until they were old enough to fight; his sparring partner until the Romans took them away from their tribe; his comrade and fellow Knight as they served in Britain. Gaheris – kind, gentle, ever-joking Gaheris – was all of this and more, and Gawain struggled to breathe when he thought of his twin dying alone in the cold, muddy clearing, lying in a pool of his own blood. _It was not meant to end this way. Never Gaheris, never any of them. _In his deepest moments of despair and grief, Gawain cursed their ancestors, those who had survived the great past battle with Rome and were consequently bound into pacts with the grasping, greedy victors. Had they died that day, he and Gaheris would have been able to live out their days in Sarmatia, drifting from place to place on the great steppes. They were born to be nomads, he and his brother, not virtual slaves tied to duty and a pointless Wall.

"Gawain," came Tristran's steady voice, devoid of the suffocating sympathy that thickened the voices of his fellows. "Do you want some?"

Gawain glanced at the dried meat that Tristran held out as he rode beside him. "Not hungry, thanks," he said finally, looking away. The last time he had eaten a meal, it had been with Gaheris. They had shared a hunk of stale bread, dipped in hot water to soften it. Gaheris had made some sort of joke about the bread, and they had laughed. The bread had already passed through him, but he refused to eat all the same, hoping to keep some sort of memory inside him. It was stupid, he knew, but at the same time he did not care.

"Take it," said the scout quietly, reaching over and pressing it into his hand. "You might feel like it later. He wouldn't want you to starve yourself." With that, the scout dug his boot sharply into his horse and galloped off to the front of the line, leaving Gawain with an angry retort on his tongue and an ache in his throat. As well as an unwanted piece of meat.

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Tristran drew level with Arthur and Mordred, giving a nod of acknowledgement to the two men. Mordred's face was pale and drawn, his posture uncomfortable as he rode along. He had received a fairly deep spear wound in his side during the skirmish, as well as a long cut to the neck. He was lucky to have escaped with his life – if the attacker had applied any more force to the swipe, Mordred's corpse would have joined Gaheris' at the end of the line. Bedivere, the younger Knight who doubled as their healer on missions, had been reluctant to ride out because of Mordred's wounds, but had eventually given up in despair. The second-in-command was nothing if not determined, but it looked as though he was paying for his stubborn streak. The tight smile he directed at Tristran held none of its usual easy humour, and in the chill blue light of early morning, he looked very sickly indeed.

"Tristan," greeted Arthur amiably, gesturing for the scout to join them. "What news?"

Tristran shrugged, his horse falling into step with the others. "The trail's gone cold. They've a good tracker with them to cover it, that's my guess. I don't think they expected to meet us – you noticed the stark differences in fighting quality between them." It was not a question. Arthur had been trained well by his mentors, and was observant besides.

"We were just talking about that. Mordred recognised one of the women."

"Unfortunately. The blonde one, long braided hair," said Mordred darkly. "She's a real she-wolf. I'd kill her if I had the chance, but she darts in and out with her bow like a wraith. Bows and arrows are a coward's weapon." He paused, and smiled quickly. "No offence intended, Tris."

"None taken," replied the scout lightly. Mordred often did not think before he spoke. They were all used to it by now, and had learned over the years that he rarely meant to be rude.

"Anyway," Mordred continued, going to run his hand through his short hair, but stopping with a wince, "Bloody spear. What was I saying?"

"She-wolf," supplied Arthur calmly.

"Ah, yes. She's one of their better fighters, and Perce says he's seen her leading a group of youngsters once when he was out scouting." Percival was the other scout, currently riding ahead and checking the trail for any dangers.

"Training exercise. That explains things. Or a hunting party?"

Arthur frowned. "It might have been, but there were too many of them for that. Did you get a count, Tristran?"

"About twenty."

"I think we could rule out a hunting party, then. Even for them, twenty would be too much trouble. Did Percival note anything?"

Tristran fished around in his pocket, trying to find another piece of dried meat. He withdrew a questionably furred specimen and dusted it off, earning a look of revulsion from Mordred as he popped it in his mouth. "No more than we did," he mumbled as he chewed. _Was this ever actually meat? _"They got away as soon as they possibly could, it seemed. The better fighters appeared to be covering for the escape of the less skilled ones."

"And they _were _less skilled," interjected Mordred, shaking his head angrily. "Did you see the way the two tattooed ones slaughtered Gaheris? It was disgusting. He deserved to die a better death. He was a good man, and those two bastards took him down like a dog." He looked away sharply, taking a sudden and intense interest in something on the far side of his mount's neck. Mordred and Gaheris had been good friends, and Tristran was fairly certain that Mordred's wan countenance was not solely due to loss of blood.

"He did not deserve to die at all," said Arthur quietly, peering into the mist and allowing Mordred a moment to compose himself. "It is not a matter of deserving death. There are patterns in the world that are larger than we know, and we each must play our part. There is a plan for each of us, though the world may seem cruel and full of madness."

"That it does. Tell us more, Tris," said Mordred unsteadily, taking a deep breath, his eyes still averted. Arthur's words, noble and wise as they were, would have little effect on the grieving man at this stage. It had been the same when Lionel died, and Agravaine before him. Mordred _felt _too much, and nothing could change that. Tristran was thankful that he could easily distance himself from his emotions, but he sometimes wondered how much suppression they could take. Perhaps one day, he would simply explode like an overripe melon. With an effort, he drew his thoughts back to the current conversation.

"There were others that I recognised as well," said Tristran. "The three with limed hair, the short one with the scarred face. They have all fought against us before, and have survived."

"We shall have to make it our business that such a thing does not happen again," said Arthur firmly. "I will not lose more men."

"Then mark my words," said Tristran quietly, finally giving up and spitting out the mangled strip of jerky. "Watch for the two tattooed ones. Untrained, they are fierce and terrible enough; but if that was indeed a training exercise, their leaders will soon hone them into true dangers. I would go as far to suggest a small party to hunt them down and dispose of them."

"I would second that," growled Mordred, finally looking up with red-rimmed eyes. Arthur's face remained impassive as he shook his head.

"I will think on it. There has been enough killing for now, and we must focus on returning to the Wall. We have a brother to bury, and a report to make."

"What?" Mordred's face twisted into an expression of anger and dismay, and Tristran found it hard to contain his own exclamation of irritation. _They will have moved on by the time Arthur sends us out, _he thought, already formulating a plan in his mind.

Arthur cleared his throat and glared at them both. "I am your Commander, and in this you must obey my orders. It is too dangerous, and we must return. Do you understand?"

Tristran and Mordred both nodded wordlessly. _Oh, I understand, Arthur, _Tristran snarled soundlessly. _I understand that if you have your way, the next time we meet them we will lose another brother. You are my commander, but I will do everything in my power to make sure as many of us as possible return Home. Our _real _home, not our godsforsaken outpost at Wall. _As they rode along in tense silence, a light snow began to drift down about them. The clouds above them were low and heavy, and Tristran cursed himself for not thinking to look earlier.

"I will go to…" he began, but was cut off by a shout further down the line. Tristran, Arthur and Mordred swung around as a horse appeared out of the mist to their left flank, clattering wildly down the rocky slope.

"No. No, no, no…" groaned Mordred, his low and desperate voice sending a chill down Tristran's spine.

The scout felt the fury rising in him as he beheld the sight before him. _Damn it all, Arthur. You will not stop me from riding out now. _


	2. Friendship and Fire

**Disclaimer: I don't own King Arthur. From now on, this applies to the rest of the chapters. Potential sue-ees, take note! **

**A/N: There'll be a pronunciation guide at the end, just in case none of you are Picts/Woads from ancient Britain. Also, thanks for the lovely reviews! They're really encouraging me to write more, so thanks for taking the time. **

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**Chapter Two: Friendship and Fire**

The wind whirled around the solitary figure standing at the edge of a grove of trees, small flakes of snow borne on the icy chill. _Winter is fading, _thought Banna absently, squinting slightly as the snowflakes were tossed into her face. It was not a good time of year to be out, but ultimately it was not her decision. And in any case, they would soon be returning to camp, so she squared her shoulders and tried not to think about the cold. _Most of us will be returning to camp, _she corrected herself, and her stomach clenched with renewed grief and dread. Though the warriors died a noble death, she hated to see the faces of their families when a warband returned home without their loved ones. _Pryderi. Emrys. Ethne. _Emrys had been only fifteen, and Ethne had two young children and a husband that loved her. Pryderi was her cousin. He was to be wed next year.

She stood downwind of her group, excusing herself earlier for a few moments alone. Banna was a solitary creature to begin with, but after spending two moons on a training exercise with the same eighteen people, she was ready to run for the hills. Screaming. This was the last time she was volunteering to train the young warriors of their tribe, no matter how Grainne cajoled her. Her older friend was the weary veteran of more than six such exercises, causing Banna to treat her with a new awed respect. To endure so much was almost beyond the young tracker's belief. Grainne was surely something more than human.

Banna stiffened suddenly as she heard the sound of a boot scraping an exposed tree-root. With a smile, she relaxed, recognising the loping gait.

"Still here, then, Ban?" asked Donaith, laying a hand on her shoulder as he came to stand beside her.

"Still here. Is the fire nice?"

Her friend sighed dramatically. "More than you'll ever know. Irnos is beside himself with joy." Banna snorted at the image of the dour old hunter being excited about anything_. _Unlike Grainne, Irnos seemed something _less _than human, often resembling a scowling stone or piece of dried-up old leather. One could always count on him for a miserable comment to sum up any situation; which, depending on the mood, either made him dryly amusing or deeply depressing.

"And how is Brennus?" she asked. The warrior had received a nasty head wound from a Roman whose throat he had tried to slit. The Roman hadn't been too happy, and had left Brennus in an unconscious, bleeding heap in the mud, almost dead.

Donaith's mouth twisted doubtfully. "He's as well as can be expected. In and out of consciousness, but he's better than he was. Let's go back to the campfire – it's freezing here."

"I don't know if I can bear it…"

"Yes, you can. They're just inexperienced."

"It's not their inexperience that bothers me, Donaith – it's their natures. Especially Murchadh and Iurnan." She gritted her teeth as she thought of the two young men, heavily tattooed and cocky beyond all belief. It had been easy to dismiss them as merely annoying before the battle, but after witnessing their brutality towards the Romans, Banna felt a twinge of unease when she was around them. Murchadh in particular worried her, having initiated the vicious attack on one of the mounted Romans. The brothers had truly mutilated the man, leaving the rest of their warband sickened. _Other tribes may fight like that further south, _Grainne had raged at them afterwards, _but we kill with honour. We are from the north, and we are hardened and fierce. We earn respect in the eyes of men and gods from fighting cleanly and worthily, and so you have shamed yourselves _and_ your tribe this day. _Any fool could have seen that their leader's wise words had no effect, however. 

"They're even worse after the battle," her friend agreed, taking her arm and gently guiding her back into the trees, towards the small fire. "I would not be surprised if they had some Saxon in them, judging by the battle-rage that seemed to come upon them. They will be disciplined when we return home, no doubt. I'm merely glad we're their allies and not their enemies!" Banna smiled half-heartedly, the false cheer in Donaith's voice not going unnoticed. _So, it's not only me that feels uneasy about them. _

As they walked back into the camp, Iurnan turned to look at them silently, his narrow face and dark colouring giving him a slightly pinched look in the play of shadow and light over his face. Banna met his stare coolly, suddenly glad of the lime in her hair and the charcoal smudged around her eyes. It helped her see better when she was scouting, but also lent her a feral look that sent others scurrying. If he looked menacing, she was sure that she looked ten times more so. She shifted her spear slightly so that the firelight glinted off it, and then followed Donaith to the other side of the fire, hoping her small display of dominance would cause the strange and violent young man to back off. Somehow, she thought it wouldn't.

"Banna. Saw you anything of note?" asked Grainne quietly as Banna hunkered down beside her friend.

"Nothing. Merely snow, and thickening cloud. We should be heading home soon – the wind is blowing colder, and we must deliver the news to the families of the dead." Grainne nodded in agreement, holding her hands out to warm them in front of the flames. Her long blonde hair, braided and matted, was golden in the firelight, and her eyes were tear-stained and red. She did not take easily to losing those under her leadership, and Ethne had been a good friend to her as well.

"How long will it take us to get home?" asked Fearghus, one of the warriors in training. He was a pleasant lad, though not cut out for war. Banna had held his long hair back from his face as he had emptied the contents of his stomach after the skirmish; and had heard his tearful, ashamed confession that he would rather be a smith, but that his father would not allow it. She hated to think how the graceful, soft-spoken young man would cope with the carnage of a real battle. He had barely seen seventeen moons. Banna and Donaith had decided to take him under their guidance, and Banna planned to have a word with his father. Belligerent as Henwas could be, he was not foolish enough to irritate the best tracker and hunter of their small tribe. If Banna had her way, Fearghus would have his apprenticeship by the summer.

"In answer to your question, lad," grumbled Irnos sourly, "It will take us _too _long to get home, if certain people keep disappearing." Banna looked up sharply, checking to see if anyone was absent from the group.

"Where is Murchadh?" demanded Grainne, standing up and looking around.

"Oi! Where's your brother, Iurnan?" barked one of the other warriors, cuffing the young man on the back of his head. Iurnan answered with a swift, painful punch to the warrior's chin before Donaith wrenched the two apart.

"Grainne asked you a question," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "Where is your brother?"

Iurnan wriggled free and pulled back with a disdainful look. "How should I know? I haven't seen him for hours." Banna cursed silently, wondering where he had gone off to. The menacing silence deepened, and Iurnan squirmed uncomfortably. "He'll be back soon, I suppose. Said he was going hunting."

"Banna. Donaith. Find him." Grainne's cold tone brooked no argument, and the two were on their feet in an instant and striding towards the horses. "Which way did he go?" she snapped at Iurnan, her anger palpable in the small clearing.

"South," spat Iurnan, raising his chin in defiance.

With an internal groan of annoyance, Banna mounted up and nudged her mount in the side. As she and Donaith trotted off into the thin curtain of whirling snow, she sent up a silent prayer to the gods that they would not run into any trouble caused by the young man. _Well, any trouble at all, _she thought, looking south and trying to ignore the knot of dread in her stomach.

_Keep us safe. Please. _

Back at the camp, Iurnan smiled coldly.

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**A/N: A note on the pronunciation of names:**

**Donaith – DO-nee (rhymes with "bonny")**

**Grainne – GRAWN-yuh**

**Murchadh – MOOR-a-chu**

**Iurnan – YOOR-nun**

**Ethne – EN-ya**

**Fearghus – FEAR-a-gus (****"gus" rhymes with "puss")**

**The others are pronounced the way they look. These guys are Picts, by the way, which are the same as Woads (the terms are interchangeable). They're from further north, in modern Scotland. Sorry I'm not writing them with an accent – you'll have to imagine it! :D**


	3. Rus and Revenge

**Okay, a bit more drama to go before the adventure starts… **

**Disclaimer: I don't own King Arthur, and I make no profit from this story.**

**And PLEASE review! I'd really like to hear some feedback about how this is going, good or bad :) Also, I'm thinking of putting in one of the other Knights as a fairly main character later on – who do you think it should be? Anyway, hope you enjoy!**

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**Chapter Three: Rus and Revenge**

_ "I will go to…" he began, but was cut off by a shout further down the line. Tristran, Arthur and Mordred swung around as a horse appeared out of the mist to their left flank, clattering wildly down the rocky slope. _

_ "No. No, no, no…" groaned Mordred, his low and desperate voice sending a chill down Tristran's spine. _

_The scout felt the fury rising in him as he beheld the sight before him. Damn it all, Arthur. You will not stop me from riding out now. _

"Oh, God," whispered Arthur as Percival's horse galloped towards them, its eyes rolling with fear, its master's bodiless head tied by his hair to the reins. It bounced sickly as the horse thundered past, the steed's grey coat spattered with blood. After a stunned moment, Galahad, the fastest horseman amongst them, spurred his own horse after the terrified animal, taking off after it into the thick mist. A shocked silence hung over the group, broken only by Mordred's desperate muttering.

"They will pay for this!" roared Lancelot, his hoarse shout startling the Knights out of their stupor. The mist muffled his call, but it shook the Knights to their very bones all the same.

"Let me hunt them, Arthur!" cried Bedivere, his sword ringing clearly as he unsheathed it.

"_RUS!_" screamed Bors, thumping his chest violently. The other Knights took up the war-cry, their horses prancing nervously under them. Gawain's yells were the loudest of all as he brandished his axe madly. Arthur rode forward and shouted for the men to be silent, followed by Mordred.

Tristran had no words. He wanted blood.

He and Percival had trained together, scouted together, had come to Britain together. They were from the same tribe, and had vowed to do all in their power to return home to their families at the end of the fifteen years. All hope was severed, now. Tristran felt a growl building behind his teeth. _I will kill them for this, _he vowed, the distressed shouts of his brothers a stark and painful backdrop to his oath. _I will slaughter the ones who killed my cousin. Before they die, they will beg for mercy. And I shall give them none. _Again and again in his mind's eye, he saw Percival's head thumping against the bloodstained flanks of his dependable grey stallion. He cantered up to Arthur, barely able to form the words through the choking anguish building in his chest and throat. He had no control now.

"I will find his body," he forced out, locking eyes with the Commander. Arthur flinched slightly at the animal glint in Tristran's eyes, and began to shake his head.

"Tristran, no, you…"

"I will go."

"I command you…"

Without a second glance, Tristran took flight in the direction from whence Percival's horse came.

"TRISTRAN!" Arthur roared after him. "No, Mordred…"

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Mordred winced as his horse leapt over the small ditch, landing heavily and jarring his aching side. He could see Tristran up ahead, riding like a madman, following a trail that only he could see. _Well, I hope he's following a trail, _thought Mordred worriedly. Though the mist had dispersed, snow was now blowing in from the north, flicking into his eyes and melting into icy rivulets that trickled down his neck.

"Come on, come on," he urged his horse, digging his heels in and flicking the reins. Blood-lust was coursing through his veins, and his heart raced faster than his horse could gallop. He would slice Percival's killer to ribbons, avenge the brutal killing of Gaheris. _All with a deep wound in your side and a chunk sliced out of your neck? _a cynical part of him snickered. _You truly are a dreamer, as Lancelot calls you._

With his customary suddenness, Tristran wheeled to a halt, causing Mordred to grab at the reins furiously to avoid galloping into him.

"What do you think you're doing?" spat the scout, his eyes wild. "Go back to Arthur!"

"You bloody idiot!" snarled Mordred, patting his horse's neck apologetically. "Did you want me to run you down? And I'm not going back to Arthur, damn you. Perce was my friend too, and I have the right…"

"You have no right," said Tristran, his voice raw with grief. "He's my _cousin_! He is nothing to you. Now go. Go!" He spat at the hooves of Mordred's steed, his posture defiant. Narrowing his eyes, Mordred gathered himself up heatedly and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword.

"You will not speak to me like that," he said, his voice steady and cold. "I am your second-in-command, and I am accompanying you whether you like it or not. Now shut up and find the trail. I want to spill the blood of the savage that did this, and I want their guts steaming in the dirt." He met the scout's furious stare, glaring straight back with all the anger and authority he could muster. Finally, Tristran let loose a stream of Sarmatian curses as he turned his horse around and cantered off into a flurry of snow, gesturing sharply for Mordred to follow. The second-in-command followed, a small and bitter grin of victory flickering over his sharp features.

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"Stop."

Two hours had gone by, and they had found nothing. Mordred's previous fury had compressed into a cold, hard weight in his chest, and his side was throbbing. The snow continued to fall endlessly around them, covering tracks and making things incredibly difficult. This was the first Tristran had spoken since they had fought earlier, and with a relieved sigh, Mordred gently pulled his horse to a standstill. Tristran had dismounted and was examining the ground intently, smelling a pinch of dirt in the palm of his hand.

"We are nearby. Be ready. At least four others have been here recently." Tristran drew an arrow from his quiver and started forward, Mordred following close behind. He unsheathed his sword quietly, thanking the gods that he kept it in a leather scabbard. Bedivere's iron scabbard may have looked impressive, but metal on metal made a horrifically loud noise.

They crept through the trees, barely breathing. The snow carpeted the ground lightly, and in some places it had soaked up spots of bright red blood. Mordred felt a deep calm settle over him as he slid into his battle stance, the familiarity of the sword in his hand and the defensive crouch reassuring and safe. There was still no sound, but for the soft creaking of the cold trees and the breathy moan of the wind through the thick branches. The sky was darkening, and the light was dim and pitilessly grey. Tristran held up his hand suddenly, and pointed to the trees ahead. Three limp bodies were slumped on the leaf-litter, a dead horse sprawled beneath the boughs of an old chestnut. The body nearest to them was without a head. Mordred nodded grimly at Tristran, and they advanced into the open, weapons at the ready.

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_With an internal groan of annoyance, Banna mounted up and nudged her mount in the side. As she and Donaith trotted off into the thin curtain of whirling snow, she sent up a silent prayer to the gods that they would not run into any trouble caused by the young man. Well, any trouble at all, she thought, looking south and trying to ignore the knot of dread in her stomach. _

_**Keep us safe. Please. **_

_Back at the camp, Iurnan smiled coldly. _

Donaith shivered as a fresh gust of wind blasted him in the face, no longer deflected by the thick cover of trees. The trail Banna had found was leading them across an open plain, and the grey-eyed warrior felt uneasy. Another set of hoof prints had joined those of Murchadh's horse a short distance from their camp, and only moments ago Banna had discovered yet another set of prints falling in with the other two. Donaith was never nervous, even in the fiercest of battles, but the presence of the two tattooed brothers set him on edge, and left a bitter taste in his mouth. Ever since they had joined Donaith and Banna's tribe two years ago, Donaith had never felt completely at ease; always watching the brothers with wary eyes and deep suspicion.

"Banna," he called over the rushing wind, "This doesn't feel right." The tracker turned around and nodded.

"I know," she said, moving closer to him, "But we have to fetch him. I don't like the look of these tracks, though. They're moving fast."

"More like purposefully," muttered Donaith, the ominous feeling crawling uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. He lifted his hand to touch the lime in his hair, a gesture that usually gave him reassurance. The crunchy stiffness reminded him that he was a warrior, and the weight of the long braids that hung to the middle of his back was a reminder of his purpose. Each had a different meaning, one thick braid for each hardship that he had endured, one thin braid for each battle he had fought in. Banna chose not to braid her hair, her mildly menacing appearance more than enough to discourage opponents. She was quite fearsome, what with all the kohl around her dark eyes, her solemn face and her tangled mane; but she was also the best of friends, once she decided that she liked you. All the same, Donaith was always careful around her when she had her long spear in hand.

"Ready then?" she asked, giving her grey pony a pat on the neck. Donaith nodded wordlessly, and after one last glance around, they took off down the slope.

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Banna breathed a silent sigh of relief as they made it into the cover of the trees once more. Though they had crossed the plain without incident, she preferred to be in the forest, where the patterns of the trees were familiar, and the smell of mouldering leaves was musty and sweet in her nostrils. Donaith's nervousness was tangible, and was making her uneasy as well, though not enough to distract her from tracking Murchadh and his two companions. She pursed her lips in thought. There was something deeply suspicious about this whole situation.

The tracks continued south, and Banna sent up another prayer to the gods that they would not run into the Romans. As they rode, she kept trying to think of possible scenarios explaining Murchadh's actions, but none of them satisfied her. She had entertained the notion that perhaps Murchadh had been kidnapped by the two Roman scouts, but she dismissed this theory, remembering that the Romans shod their horses. These ones were without the clattering iron rings, and they were evidently swift-footed and sure in navigating the changing terrain of the forest. The snow, thankfully, was not as thick here as it had been further north, so the tracks were easier to follow. As she swept her gaze over the ground, her eyes alighted on a patch of disturbed ground up ahead. She pulled her pony to a swift halt, gesturing for Donaith to do the same. She dismounted quickly, spear in hand, and walked towards the markings.

Two of the men had dismounted here not long ago, and a third had ridden on. She recognised one of the sets of prints as Murchadh's; the other set belonging to a tall, heavily-built woman. Donaith stood silently beside her, scanning ahead with narrowed eyes, his axe drawn and ready. She mutely beckoned for him to follow her, as she in turn followed the footprints.

The two had led their horses to a nearby stream, and had stopped there before going across. It was shallow and freezing cold, so in an effort to spare their boots, Banna and Donaith mounted up and rode across. They followed the human and equine prints as they moved deeper into the forest, where the trees grew closer together. Banna tightened her grip on the spear as the wind blew a metallic scent downwind towards them. Blood, and some other rank smell. Donaith wrinkled his nose and spat in disgust.

"Something's had its guts spilled," he mouthed, and Banna nodded. Hopefully it was just an animal. As they made their way closer to the source of the smell, Banna laid her hand on Donaith's arm and gestured for him to spilt up and circle the other way as they closed in. He nodded, and took off to the left as she went right.

She smelt the body before she saw it. Headless, it lay beneath the low-hanging boughs of the evergreen trees, mutilated horribly. _A Sarmatian Knight, _she thought in horror, recognising the armour. _One of the scouts. _He was her enemy, but she felt a wave of sickness and anger at the state of the corpse. She had admired the skill of this scout, and had thought him once to be a worthy opponent on the battlefield. He showed mercy, and killed quickly and cleanly. Murchadh, for she was sure this was his work, had showed no such respect. She walked slowly towards the body, watching the trees around her for any sign of movement. Donaith appeared from the other side of the trees, his face twisting with disgust as he beheld the handiwork of their tribesman.

"Has he been dead long?" he asked as he came to stand beside Banna.

She crouched down, steeling herself, and examined the body. "No. He was killed perhaps, one hour ago? Maybe two? See…" she pointed to the mess that had been his stomach, beginning to explain how she knew.

"No," said Donaith, shaking his head. "Don't tell me. Grainne will punish him for this when she hears of it."

"Oh, no! I couldn't bear her displeasure." They whirled around as the mocking voice laughed from behind them, Banna dropping down into a fighting crouch and Donaith swinging back his axe.

"Murchadh." Donaith scowled as the tattooed man dropped gracefully from the lower branches of a nearby tree. He sidled towards them, a disarming smile on his face. "Why have you done this?"

Murchadh laughed. "He was interrupting us," he said boredly, holding up his hand and making an odd gesture. Banna hefted her spear a little as she stood up, watching in mounting dread as three figures melted out of the trees behind Murchadh. _How did I miss them?_

"Do introduce us," said Donaith coolly, his voice betraying no emotion, his posture relaxed. Banna knew him better than to think he felt at ease, however. He had always been better than her at hiding his worry, but she was a tracker, and used to picking up small signals. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the minute clenching and unclenching of his hand on the polished handle of his axe, the tautness in his arms.

"I would be glad to," Murchadh grinned, slipping his arm around the waist of the heavily-built woman that came to stand beside him. The two other men stood a little behind, their faces hidden by low hoods. "Donaith and Banna, meet Morag, Failbhe and Ivar. Old friends of mine."

"I'm sure the others will be delighted to meet you," said Donaith cordially. "Shall we burn the body, then, and return to camp?" His axe was lowered, but like Banna, he was ready to fight at any instant.

The woman named Morag titled her head, bright blue eyes wide. "I don't want to, though. I want to go north, yes, but not to see your fellows," she said, her voice startlingly light and smooth. "Murchadh told us we could get a little better acquainted with you, first." She smiled at them as she drew a long knife from her belt, examining it closely. "What do you know of knives, Banna my lass?"

Donaith started forward and moved closer to Banna. "She knows enough. Now please, let's…"

"No," said Morag warningly, tossing her short blonde hair over her shoulder. "I asked your friend, did I not? You will not interrupt me."

With frightening speed and strength, she flicked her wrist back quickly and released the knife with a toss of her fingers, sending it spinning through the air into Donaith's throat. Warm blood sprayed the left side of Banna's face.

Donaith's blood. Her friend collapsed to his knees beside her with an odd gulping sound, his axe falling from nerveless fingers.

For a single, endless moment, Banna was frozen, unable to believe what just happened. Then time caught up and shook her in its merciless teeth, the truth sinking into her with dreadful clarity.

She felt as though her lungs had collapsed. _Not Donaith, no, please don't let him be dead…_Struggling to breathe, she went for Morag, spear held high. As she prepared to thrust its point deep into the woman's gut, something hit her on the side of the head with shocking force, knocking her backwards. Her vision wavered as she tried to get up, her limbs refusing to obey her. She felt something warm and wet trickling down her face, heard Donaith crawling over to her, making noises strange and inhuman. Blackness crept in from the corners of her eyes, and she felt herself drifting further and further away from her body.

"He's all yours, lads," she heard a voice say as she toppled to the hard earth, her ears ringing. _No, Donaith, no, no, no…_

And then she succumbed to the darkness.

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**A note on the pronunciation of certain names:**

**Donaith – DO-nee (rhymes with "bonny")**

**Grainne – GRAWN-yuh**

**Murchadh – MOOR-a-chu**

**Iurnan – YOOR-nun**

**Failbhe – FAL-uh-vuh**


	4. Leaves and Ladies

**Disclaimer: I don't own King Arthur, and I'm making no profit from this story.**

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**Chapter Four: Leaves and Ladies**

_Tristran held up his hand suddenly, and pointed to the trees ahead. Three limp bodies were slumped on the leaf-litter, a dead horse sprawled beneath the boughs of an old chestnut. The body nearest to them was without a head. Mordred nodded grimly at Tristran, and they advanced into the open, weapons at the ready. _

Tristran recognised Percival's body instantly, despite the fact he had been stripped of his armour. His cousin had had that armour made for him with the pay he had saved up over the years from serving Rome, and it was his pride and joy. It had cost a hideous amount, and Tristran had cautioned him against it, but Percival was determined. _The armour did not save you in the end, my brother, _thought Tristran, dropping to one knee in front of his beloved cousin's corpse to pray. He felt Mordred's presence beside him, the second-in-command swallowing tightly and shifting on his feet. Finally, Tristran stood up.

Mordred put a hand on his shoulder firmly. "I'm up for hunting them if you are. Arthur will know to go on without us."

Tristran nodded, grateful for the support. "Thankyou, Mordred."

The dark-haired man shrugged sadly. "No need. I'm sorry, Tris. We'll find them, and when we do, you can have first pick." He wasn't joking, Tristran realised with grim satisfaction. _Very well_. He would have the two tattooed ones, for he had no doubt this was their work. "So, who are the others?"

Tristran walked over to the headless corpse nearest him. It was a male, strongly built and tall, dressed in the dark greens and greys of a winter forest. Woad. _The victim of a skirmish between tribes? _He doubted it. There was more to this, he could feel it. The man in front of him was familiar, and Tristran could have sworn he was one of the Woads they clashed with several days ago. With a grimace, Tristan surveyed the mutilated body. Well, there was certainly no love lost between the members of _that _war-band. The warrior had been dragged, bleeding heavily, from a few metres away, and the attackers evidently beheaded him here. An ornately carved axe lay across the clearing that Tristran guessed to be the warrior's, but it was clean and unbloodied. Stranger and stranger. Judging by the hoof prints around the body, his head had received the same treatment as Percival's. He bent down to try and guess how far ahead the killers would be, but was interrupted by an urgent shout from Mordred.

"She's alive!"

Tristran sprang up and strode over to where Mordred crouched over the limp body of a woman. Tristran recognised her immediately as the spear-wielder from the skirmish, the lime still stiff and white in her hair. Her pale, narrow face was sprayed with blood on one side, a huge lump protruding from the other.

"I have fought this one before," said Mordred quietly as Tristran examined her. "She was one of the better fighters, though she did not kill any of our men. The kohl around her eyes – she's one of their trackers, isn't she?"

Tristran grunted as he turned her body over, checking for any back wounds. "Uh-huh. See, the tattoos on her fingers. They mean she's one of the better ones. I'm amazed she was taken by surprise."

"And the other?" asked Mordred, nodding to the man's body.

"Warrior. If they hadn't taken his head, I'd have a better idea, but I think I recognise him."

"I think I know him. Auburn hair, grey eyes. He fought with an axe." Tristran pointed to where said weapon lay. "Ah, right. That's him then. He was another one of the better fighters. There's something bad going on here, Tris. I don't like this at all." Mordred took out his flask of water and laid it on the ground beside him as he reached for the woman's body.

"What are you doing?" hissed Tristran, grabbing his arm. "Are you mad? We'd best leave now. They're getting further and further away, and I don't want the track going cold." Mordred shook his head stubbornly and pulled the woman half-into his lap, picking up his flask with one hand and releasing the stopper.

"We will not leave her here. Wolves will eat her alive, and I don't want that kind of blood on my hands. Besides, she can tell us where they went, who they were." He tipped a few droplets of water into the woman's open mouth as Tristran stared at him, speechless with annoyance. "And before you ask, there is no language barrier. My mother's a Pict, so I know the language." The second-in-command kept his eyes on the woman's face, stoically avoiding Tristran's own.

"Why did you not mention this before?" Tristran whispered angrily. "Who knows this?"

"Only Arthur. What the others don't know won't hurt them; and anyway, look at your own reaction. Don't question my decisions, understood? My allegiance lies with Arthur and you, my brothers, and that's all that matters." He glared at Tristran, daring the scout to continue. Tristran held up his hands peaceably, and Mordred returned to dripping water into the Woad's mouth. The scout watched dispassionately.

"If it were us, she would slit our throats and be done with it," he said blandly, dropping to a crouch beside the second-in-command and opening his own water flask. Mordred shrugged.

"Probably. But we are better men than that. And now, she will owe us. You never know when a debt might be useful." _So that's the real reason, _thought Tristran with surprise, as he took a sip of water. Mordred had always been wily, but Tristran had always thought the man's hot-headedness overrode any, well… common sense that he possessed. This kind of foresight was rare and unexpected, and it made the scout feel more at ease. He decided not to comment, however. From past experience, he knew that it was best to keep one's opinions to oneself.

"So, we wait for her to come around, then?" he asked unenthusiastically, standing up once more and tucking the flask away.

Mordred sighed. "It's our only choice. We need to know what we're dealing with. Can you scout the perimeter? Not too far, just enough to get an idea of where they went."

Tristran hesitated. "It would not be wise to split up. See, there have been at least four here… five, actually; a fifth came from the side to throw the object that hit the woman. We are only two, _and_ you are wounded."

"You're right. Well, we'd better get comfortable." Mordred glanced at Tristran awkwardly. "Tris… you know we can't do anything with the bodies. We can't burn Perce, it'd draw too much attention. And we have nothing with which to dig a grave."

"I'll cover them with leaf-litter," said Tristran quietly. He glanced once more at the still-unconscious woman, and walked off to gather the leaves. Trying to avoid looking at Percival's corpse, he wondered what the Woad would do when she woke up.

_Well, here's hoping she won't attempt to kill us, _he thought to himself. _I'd hate to slit the throat of our only source of information. _

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Mordred watched Tristran glance coldly at the Woad woman lying beside him, no doubt thinking of ways in which to kill her. He did not blame him, but even so… Tristran's constant bloodthirst was a little _too_ keen for Mordred to feel completely at ease around him. And even if Tristran didn't realise he knew, he was aware that the surly scout thought he was a complete idiot. Hardly the basis for an enduring friendship.

"His loss," he muttered under his breath, twisting a soggy piece of winter grass around his finger. He patted the Woad woman's leg absently and let loose an impressively sarcastic sigh. "He has been deprived of the joy of my estimable company, and for that, oh limed lady, he has only himself to blame. Ah, fortune! You are a cruel… Oh."

The woman was awake.

And pointing a dagger at his throat.

"Good afternoon," wheezed Mordred politely, tilting his chin back as she dug the point of the blade in deeper. No response. Her face was utterly expressionless. _Of all the times for Tristran to be out gathering leaves…_Reaching back into the depths of his somewhat rusty memory, he tried to recall some Pictish. _Aha!_ "**I am the son of Morwen; and the grandson of Morgaine, Seer of the North. Kill me, and incur her wrath.**"

_Dramatic, but effective, _Mordred applauded himself as the knife point wavered.

_But I do wish Tristran would hurry up. _

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**A/N: Sorry, just a short chapter this time! As always, I'd love to hear what you thought. Thanks again to the people who reviewed the last chapter – you're all lovely! :D**

**Oh, and also – I've messed around a bit with the historical details regarding lime. Celts used to wash lime (a mineral, not the citrus!) through their hair before battle, which would make their hair more blonde (which they preferred), but which also stiffened as it dried, making it look, well… impressive, I suppose. I'm not sure if the Picts used it, but in this story, they do! **


	5. Alive and Awake

**A/N: Oh, I know it's exciting to have to wait for chapters and all that, but last chapter really was very short, and… yeah. The long and the short of it is that I want to get a move on with all this 'decision-making' stuff, and move onto the exciting parts! So here's another chapter for you :) As always, please review – thankyou to the lovely people who already do. Silent readers, do drop in and say hello sometime! Happy reading :)**

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**Chapter Five: Alive and Awake**

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_Banna felt Donaith's blood trickling down her face, heard him crawling over to her, making noises strange and inhuman. Blackness crept in from the corners of her eyes, and she felt herself drifting further and further away from her body._

_ "He's all yours, lads," she heard a voice say as she toppled to the hard earth, her ears ringing. No, Donaith, no, no, no… _

_And then she succumbed to the darkness._

Banna came out of the long dark slowly, the pain leaching almost gently back into her consciousness. The slow trickle of awareness grew and grew, gradually building up to a deafening, throbbing crescendo of fear, hurt and, most of all, rage.

Donaith was dead.

And she was still alive.

Banna did not want to open her eyes, refusing to open the twin shields of skin that kept the world at bay. Once she opened her eyes, she would see her best friend's body. She would have to burn him, and then follow his killers north.

She would have to hunt them, stalk them, kill them.

Then, she would have to return home, and tell his family and friends that she failed to protect him.

That she stood next to him, struck dumb by the speed of the woman's death-throw.

That she did not move, even when the hot spray of his lifeblood hit her face.

That she failed as warrior.

As a tracker.

As a friend.

No, Banna did not want to open her eyes.

That is to say, she did not want to open her eyes until she suddenly felt someone's hand patting her leg. She froze, her senses screaming at her to run. A man's voice muttered something inaudibly, followed by a long sigh. He was sitting close beside her, ripping grass from the cold ground loudly. He smelt dreadful, and when he moved he omitted the slightest clinking noise. Armour. A soldier, then, probably on patrol. Judging by the smell of him, he'd been away from his post for a while. The strongest smell was of horse, but that told her little. He could be an important soldier, a mounted Knight, or a mounted soldier on a scouting mission. Preparing herself for the worst, Banna opened her eyes minutely, cursing the dark smudges around her eyes. It would make the whites more visible if he was paying attention.

He didn't seem to be, gods be praised. She recognised him immediately by his long, narrow face as the Roman who had wounded Brennus, and whom she had fought against in minor skirmishes before. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, twisting some dead grass around his fingers. His dark brown hair was mid-length and thick, and he wore a worn leather vest over a rough, undyed woollen tunic. His trousers seemed also to be made of some sort of leather, and they were was filthy and mud-stained as the rest of him. A glint of metal indicated that he wore thin vest of chainmail under the leather. He was careful, then. Or perhaps just used to the dangers of warfare. His face was dirty, his downcast eyes a deep, bright blue. Banna noticed with relief that his sword was not within easy reach. She watched him carefully as she formulated a plan of escape in her mind, trying to dismiss the thought of Donaith for now. As she prepared to leap up, the Roman began to mutter to himself in the flowery Roman tongue, rolling his eyes and making odd facial expressions. _Ready, _thought Banna to herself, easing her small dagger out of its sheath at her side. The Roman chattered carelessly to himself as she waited for the right moment, barely breathing. _And…now._

She pushed herself to a kneeling position in one fluid movement, pressing the dagger firmly to the main vein of his neck. He let out a startled exclamation and almost fell backwards, his eyes darting to the blade at his throat. He tilted his chin up in an effort to alleviate the pressure, but Banna pressed harder, fixing him with a cold stare, daring him to cry for help. He said something in Latin, but she had no idea of the meaning. She merely pressed the point in harder, preparing to slit his throat and run. Her head throbbed abominably as she tensed, trying to gather her failing strength.

"I am the son of Morwen, and the grandson of Morgaine, Seer of the North," gasped the man unexpectedly, almost causing Banna to drop the dagger in surprise. "Kill me, and incur her wrath." Banna stared in disbelief. He had to be lying. Morgaine? The Great Seer? But that would make him… No, he had to be lying…

"Dagger down, woman," growled a heavily accented voice from behind her, the tip of something cold and metallic pressing into the nape of her neck. With anger and shame – _how did I not hear an attacker __**again**__?__– _Banna lowered the dagger to the ground and raised her empty hands to the air, staring expressionlessly at the Roman in front of her. He looked over her shoulder and shook his head, making a cutting gesture with his hand. Dear gods, were the Romans in league with Donaith's killers? Was she too to be beheaded and mutilated? The weapon was removed from the back of her neck, and she raised her chin defiantly as she prepared to die.

"Can you speak?" asked the Roman Knight in front of her, picking up her dagger from the ground and placing it out of reach. His bright blue eyes burnt into her own with a desperate intensity, as the second man came to stand beside him. The other scout. _This would complicate things_. "Can you tell us what happened here?"

"Aye, and aye," said Banna warily, watching the two carefully. _A Roman that spoke her language? _She had thought all Romans were too lazy and ignorant to learn the tongue of the country they had invaded. The scout stared at her coldly through his long, messy strands of hair, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. They did not seem to be about to kill her, and a tiny flare of hope kindled in her stomach.

"Tell us, woman," said the scout impatiently, his words difficult to make out through his heavy accent. Not Roman-born, then, either of them; if the blue-eyed one was telling the truth. Said Knight gave his companion a warning look, then tuned back to Banna and spread his hands in front of him.

"We mean you no harm. Our comrade has been murdered, and we have tracked his killers to this place. We found his body, along with that of another man. And you." He looked carefully at her, and Banna met his questioning look steadily. He sighed, and rose gingerly to his haunches. "We mean to find our friend's killers, and it would be… what is the word… it would be helpful if you could tell us who they are."

Banna paused, mentally taking note of the fact that he was wounded. "They are my quarry," she said finally, her eyes drifting to where two bodies lay neatly side by side. _Donaith. _

"What is 'quarry'?" asked the blue-eyed man confusedly as he stood up, steadying himself on the outstretched arm of the scout with a wince. _Left side, probably a deep wound. Gained in the skirmish? Not fully healed, good weak point. _The scout's eyes followed hers quickly, and he gave her an indecipherable stare.

"They are mine to hunt," she repeated, the cold wind brushing her cheek. It had stopped snowing, but the sky was darkening. She had lain in the clearing, exposed and vulnerable, for hours. A shudder rippled through her. She was lucky not to have been torn apart by wolves or other hungry predators of the forest. Turning her mind from such morbid thoughts, she stood up slowly, hands still raised. The men watched her every movement suspiciously. "Will you let me go? They will be far from here, now."

The scout shook his head. "Need information. We kill them." _Bow and quiver of arrows, longsword. Well-armed, uninjured. Steady hand, quick movements. Dangerous, and too watchful. _Though a worthy opponent, this one would make an escape attempt difficult.

"We have sworn oaths," said the other, still determined. "We must, ah… avenge… our brother. Yes? By the look on your face, you must understand this." Banna continued to stare at him expressionlessly, though her thoughts were in turmoil. The man continued, his voice steady and calm. "You are only one, and they are five. Together, we could catch them. Make them suffer for what they have done."

"Enough to share," the scout said menacingly, sniffing the wind. Banna scowled at him, disliking the emotionless way in which he looked at her.

"You wish to hunt with a savage?" she asked mockingly, raising an eyebrow. "With your sworn enemy?"

"Rome's enemy," said the blue-eyed one firmly, his lips twisting into an odd smile. _Bitter? _

"Yet I have killed your kinsmen, and you have killed mine."

"Yes. Under the orders of Rome."

"Your _friends_ killed my cousin."

"Yours killed mine," said the scout, glancing at the corpse laid out beside Donaith.

"They are _not _my friends," hissed Banna wrathfully. With a livid glare, she turned and walked over to where Donaith's axe lay discarded in the dirt; stepping cautiously to avoid the patches of blood-smeared grass. She suppressed the lump in her throat and blinked away the weak tears that threatened to fall. Donaith would not want her to cry. Her tears would achieve nothing. She forced herself to think clearly, gripping the shabby leather-wrapped handle of the axe tightly in her hand.

It was true that she was one against five. Banna was more a tracker than a warrior, used to treading hidden ways on soundless feet, reading the patterns of the wind and earth and sky. She could hunt, of course, and she was good with a knife and a bow, but against warriors such as that _Morag_, she was… Banna inhaled sharply, realising for the first time in her life that she was simply not good enough. She needed help, at least until she reached her kinsmen back at the training camp. From there, Grainne would know what to do. With her leader's tactical skill and her own knowledge of the land, Banna was sure they could track down Murchadh and his companions. But what to do with the Romans once she got back to her own people? Banna could not deny their right to avenge the death of their friend – there were, in fact, laws among her people that freely condoned such vengeance. She had also seen the pitiful state of the corpse, and understood their pain and fury. She felt the same about… No. She would not think of it.

It was this last thought that decided her. Taking a deep breath, and hoping that her decision was not as foolish and dangerous as she feared it to be, she turned her face back towards the men.

"If you choose to travel with me, we leave now. My camp is several hours north of here, and we will stop there and seek advice from my leader. Know that in coming with me, you risk both your lives." She paused, and the men nodded, Blue-Eyes looking particularly eager. She glared at them, and continued. "I will not hesitate to kill you, should you cause me any trouble. The one we hunt is named Murchadh, and he has three companions that I know of: Morag, Ivar, Failbhe. His brother is back at camp, and his name is Iurnan." Luckily, there were plenty of warriors to keep _that _one under control until she got back. By the gods, she would get information out of the sneaking bastard in one way or another. Though not in the same ruthless league as warriors such as Grainne and Brennus, Banna was not averse to the use of violence to achieve objectives.

"Murchadh and Iurnan, are they heavily, uh… they have the pictures? On their skin?" asked Blue-Eyes.

"Tattoos? Yes." The two men exchanged a look. "You know them?"

The scout grunted. "They kill our brother badly."

"Gaheris," supplied Blue-Eyes, his face darkening with anger. "They butchered him in the skirmish."

"I saw it," said Banna, touching her fingers to her head in a gesture of apology. Blue-Eyes nodded in acceptance, and she continued. "We will put aside our status as enemies for now, but should you do anything, _anything _at all to anger me, then I will not…"

"… hesitate to kill, yes. We should leave." Banna frowned once more at the scout as he interrupted her, but she nodded grudgingly. It was darkening by the minute, and they were losing time. She had a feeling that she was not going to like travelling with the churlish Roman scout.

"We will talk as we ride," said Blue-Eyes peaceably, apparently sensing the antagonism. "Is that… your horse?" Banna glanced Donaith's once-elegant bay mare slumped bloody beneath the trees, and shook her head.

"Mine will be nearby. What is your name, Roman?" She could hardly travel with two nameless strangers, no matter how dire the circumstances.

"I am Mordred, and my comrade here is Tristran. We are Sarmatian Knights, under the command of Artorius Castus. And you, lady?"

Banna snorted. "I am no lady. I am a tracker, and my name is Banna."

"And your comrade?"

"Donaith. Donaith, son of Eoin."

The scout looked pointedly at the sky and cleared his throat. "We should go, yes?"

Banna tried very hard not to roll her eyes. "Yes, _scout_. Just let me find my horse."

As she wandered into the trees and whistled for her pony, she wondered if this was all a Very. Big. Mistake.

Well, she thought dejectedly, with the possibility of Murchadh, Morag, Ivar and Failbhe lurking around every corner from here to the highlands, enlisting the Romans-who-were-not-Romans was her best chance of ultimately disposing of Donaith's killers. And surviving, for that matter.

Now all she had to do was find Grainne.

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**A note on the pronunciation of certain names:**

**Donaith – DO-nee (rhymes with "bonny")**

**Grainne – GRAWN-yuh**

**Murchadh – MOOR-a-chu**

**Iurnan – YOOR-nun**

**Failbhe – FAL-uh-vuh**

**Eoin – EE-un**


	6. Frustration and Fear

**A/N: Dialogue written in bold indicates that they're speaking Pictish (Pictish? The language of the Picts? I'm not sure what to call it, so either one of those. Take your pick(t)). Dialogue written in italics indicates the character's thoughts.**

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**Chapter Seven: Frustration and Fear **

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Tristran watched the woman walk into the trees, her matted, dark hair tossed around by the growing wind. As soon as she was out of relative earshot, he turned to Mordred in disbelief.

"We're going to die," he said bluntly.

Ignoring Mordred's indignant protest, he walked over to where his horse was tied. He could not believe the sheer stupidity of Arthur's second-in-command. The woman would wait until they were distracted, and then kill them and steal their supplies. How could they believe a word she was saying? He did not even understand most of it, so frail was his grasp of the Pictish language. Tristran did not appreciate the feeling of deep inadequacy that Mordred's fluid grasp of the language awoke in him. Compared to Mordred, the Pictish prodigy, his previously acceptable vocabulary seemed clumsy and awkward.

And Tristran, celebrated scout to Artorius Castus and deadly Sarmatian Knight, was most certainly **not** those things.

Mordred spoke the language as though it was his mother tongue. _Oh, that's right, _Tristran thought sarcastically as he tightened the girth on the saddle, _it __**is**__ his mother tongue. Dear Mordred somehow _forgot_ to mention that his mother is the daughter of some Pict witch. _His horse shifted as he jerked the straps with a little more force than was necessary, and Tristran gave her a rueful pat on the neck. "What are we going to do, eh?" he murmured, the ghost of a smile flickering over his features as his faithful mare head-butted him gently. The presence of the dead horse across from them had her spooked, and as he fished an apple out of the saddlebag, Tristran bit off a chunk and fed it to her.

Gods save him from idiots and Picts. _Ah, Percival, _he thought wretchedly. _What I wouldn't give to have you here right now. _He glanced at the body a few short spans away from him. _Well, here right now, and alive. _

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Mordred watched Tristran readying his horse, and heaved a deep, internal sigh.

"He hates me," he muttered to his own horse, wondering which way was best to mount. Bedivere would be beside himself with worry if Mordred ripped out all his stitches. The wound was slowing him down, and he had watched with unease the Pict woman's earlier calculating glance at his injury. _Probably figuring out the most effective way to cripple me for life, _he thought to himself, heaving his aching body up into the saddle. The speed with which she had thrown herself at him before had disturbed him, and he wasn't surprised to hear her confirm that she was a tracker. Trackers could strike faster than adders and tread as quietly as fog rolling in from the sea. His mother's brother had been one, before he was killed in a battle against some Irish raiders. He had come to visit them in Sarmatia only once, claiming that it was too huge and open for his tastes. Mordred did not blame him. He did not feel the deep longing for the "boundless plains" of home as did the other Knights; instead drawn to the deep forests and tree-cloaked hills of his mother's homeland. But those were thoughts for another time. Now, they were hunting.

The Pict woman – _Banna, _he reminded himself – came out of the trees leading a stocky grey pony. Surprised that the killers had not cut its throat as well, Mordred pursed his lips to hide a smile. So _that_ was what they were riding in the highlands these days? Not that he'd ever been there, but even so… Compared to the strong, long-limbed warhorses that he and Tristran rode, the little pony's size bordered on the ridiculous. It was barely taller than the tracker herself, and resembled a white puff-ball, so soft and thick was its winter coat. How did she plan to keep up? Not to demean the pony, of course. He had ridden one like that too – when he was eight.

Mordred nodded politely to Banna as she mounted up and rode over to him, her friend's axe strapped to her back.

"**Did they take your weapon?**" he asked, still not completely confident speaking what used to be his first language. His mother would have been horrified. His grandmother… Mordred grimaced internally. Her reaction didn't bear thinking about.

"**So it seems**," Banna responded with a shrug. "**I'll get it back, though.**"

Mordred heard the underlying threat in her words. "**What do you fight with?**" He gave her an appraising glance. She was quite muscular in the arms, and of a medium height and weight. He guessed she would fight with…

"**Longspear**," she replied. "**Though I hunt with a bow**." Curses. He'd have thought she was more the sword-and-dagger type. _Mordred, my lad, you're losing your touch. _Finally, Tristran rode over to join them, munching on something in a surly fashion. He stared at Mordred frostily, and finally nodded.

"Ready?" sighed the second-in-command, ignoring the scout's bad attitude. He received a terse nod. "**Let's ride, then.**"

Banna nodded, nudging her pony in the flanks. It tossed its head, and then took off into the trees. "**We ride north,**" the tracker called over her shoulder. "**Look for signs, and follow my lead.**" Tristran muttered something that sounded suspiciously like: _I'll follow my own bloody lead_, causing Mordred to snort loudly. The scout obviously didn't like being told what to do by women; unlike Mordred, he hadn't grown up in a family with numerous domineering females, as well as a menacing matriarch. Grinning to himself as he thought of his mother and sisters, Mordred urged his horse after Banna.

As the cold wind bit his nose and cheeks, he could feel the blood-lust begin to surge in his veins once more. The danger of all this sent a strange elation through him, and despite the pain in his side and the uncomfortable tightness of the wounded skin around his neck, Mordred wanted to scream a war-cry to the darkening sky. There was something disturbingly alluring about hunting human quarry; the feel of a galloping horse beneath you, of a sharpened sword tied securely at your waist. Percival and Gaheris' killers were out there in the shadows, but they would not run and hide for long. Mordred's blade was thirsty. He would quench it with their blood.

"You wish to hunt with a savage?" Banna had asked them earlier, her voice mocking and doubtful. _Oh, sweetheart, _thought Mordred, a feral grin spreading over his face. _You haven't seen savage yet. _

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They had been riding for a couple of hours, and Tristran's annoyance was only just beginning to wear off. He rode close behind the Pict woman, whose little pony was astonishingly fast and light-footed over the uneven terrain, and watched both her movements and the movements around them carefully. His eyes constantly darted from side to side, all his senses on high alert. They had stopped to examine some tracks an hour or so ago, and the woman had told them more about the killers. Tristran, after observing the fast reflexes and reactions of the tracker, was mildly concerned at her account of the speed and stealth of Murchadh and his companions. The woman claimed that they appeared to be Picts, and that Murchadh and his brother were members of her tribe, but Tristran had his doubts. She was not sure of their motivation, either, and Tristran had to admit that he, too, was uncertain. He had voiced his concerns, as they checked a riverbank for any prints in the soft mud, about the brother that had remained back at the woman's camp.

"It sounds like a diversion to me," he had said to Mordred, who quickly translated for the woman. "They send you off, leave the camp less protected, then…" He trailed off, shrugging.

The woman had looked uneasy. "**There is nothing and no one valuable at the camp**," she had said slowly, pausing scoop a handful of water to her mouth. She then babbled something that Tristran couldn't make out, so he looked reluctantly to Mordred for help.

"She says that your idea is disquieting," his fellow Knight had translated, "and that, uh… I don't know how to say this. Ah… she still thinks it is a, um… valid? Yes. She still thinks it's a valid idea. She says she's never trusted them." Mordred made a face. "I'm a bit rusty with translating. Does what I said make sense?" Tristran had nodded briefly, and the second-in-command gave him a relieved smile. _Why does he have to be so likeable? _grumbled Tristran to himself as they had ridden off once more. Sometimes, Mordred was just too pleasant for his own good.

If he judged correctly, they were now nearing the location of the Pict woman's camp. She was certainly looking very alert as she rode; reins held loosely in one hand, axe in the other. She appeared to have taken his warning about trouble from the other brother – Iurnan? – very seriously. As they cantered along, having slowed down because of the darkness, Tristran's eyes caught sight of an odd shape in the bushes. It looked almost like…

"**Stop**!" the Pict woman called out, wheeling her horse around and leaping to the ground. Tristran did the same, drawing his sword as he carefully approached the thick wall of foliage. He pushed some branches aside with the blade, and growled through his teeth. He heard the swooping sound of Mordred's sword as the Knight turned around and raised his sword in preparation for an attack. Another dead horse. Saddled and bridled, its saddlebags empty and its throat cut in a similar fashion to the bay mare back where Percival's body lay.

"**It is not recently dead**," said the woman quietly as he came to stand beside her. "**A few hours ago, maybe more**."

"**Is the horse familiar to you?**" Tristran asked, after trying to remember the word for 'horse'.

"**Yes**," she said simply.

"**Are we nearing the camp?**" asked Mordred from behind, watching as she examined the ground around the animal, searching for tracks. She straightened up and ran a hand through her hair worriedly.

"**That is where the tracks are leading**." At the look on her face, Tristran strode back to his horse and swung into the saddle. The woman was already mounted and cantering off. Tristran waited for Mordred to struggle into the saddle before following, carefully scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. _A plague on windy nights, _he swore in frustration as every bush quivered and every tree creaked in the bitterly cold breeze. Neither he nor Mordred sheathed their swords as they followed the woman and pony through the forbidding, wind-tossed woodland. They exchanged a glance. Tristran had always tried to focus on the moment at hand, refusing to guess at the future; but in this instance, he was almost entirely certain that the Pict woman would not be finding her friends in the same way she left them.

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Mordred exchanged a glance with Tristran as they headed up the steep incline towards a thick grove of trees. This appeared to be the location of the camp that Banna had spoken of earlier, the trees crowded close together on the crest of the hill. The position would have provided an excellent view of the countryside for miles around, if only so much of it was not so heavily forested. Mordred wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but he could have sworn the breeze bore a sickly metallic tang to it, which smelt horribly like blood. _One man could not kill fifteen others, armed or not, _he told himself firmly, watching ahead for any signs of danger.

_But one man with reinforcements could, _a traitorous voice murmured in his mind, sending a pang of dread through him. Just how many killers were they dealing with?

"Mordred," said Tristran quietly, pointing over to where Banna was dismounting. The second-in-command slid off his horse and walked over to her, Tristran following close behind. The tracker held her axe with whitened knuckles as she nodded at a point near the top of the hill.

"**Fire's out**," she said, her voice barely audible. "**Can you smell…?**" Tristran and Mordred both nodded. The metallic scent was stronger now, reminding Mordred horribly of the air after a battle. He could not deny it as another gust of wind blew the sickening smell right into his nostrils. _For her sake, I hope it is not so. _Banna met his uneasy gaze, and tightened her jaw, motioning for them to follow her.

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Hidden from watchful eyes by a thick tangle of bramble bushes, two figures crouched low in the dirt, and waited.

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**As always, please review! I'd love to hear from you. :)**


	7. Watchers and Wounds

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**Chapter Seven: Watchers and Wounds**

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Banna started forward, her jaw clenched tightly. She could smell the blood, its faint and nauseating odour borne on the cold breeze. She knew her tribesmen and women would all be dead, though as of yet, she saw no bodies. Before they reached the extinguished campfire, Banna held up her hand to the Knights and indicated for them to stop. She had to do this. Kneeling to the ground, she shivered as she spoke the blessing for the spirits of her dead companions.

"Deep peace of the running wave to you," she whispered, her head bowed. She heard the Knights shifting uneasily behind her as she spoke, but she ignored them, forcing herself to concentrate. "Deep peace of the flowing air to you. Deep peace of the quiet earth to you." She touched the earth, the cool dirt centring her thoughts as she blinked back tears. "Deep peace of the shining stars to you. Deep peace of the infinite peace to you." As she finished, she touched her fingers to her forehead, reminded strongly of when the same words had been spoken at her grandmother's passing. Choking back a sob, she got to her feet and tried to stop her knees from shaking. Their spirits would be free now to go on to…

"Banna?" hissed a voice incredulously.

Tristran threw himself at the figure that crawled out from a thick tangle of bramble bushes. Mordred held his sword to the speaker's throat as Tristran straddled the writhing body, holding it to the ground. As Mordred drew back his sword to cut their throat, Banna recognised the snarls and muffled curses.

"Grainne! Mordred, Scout, leave her!" She rushed forward and knelt beside her leader, desperately grasping the woman's warm hand in her own. "Grainne, you're alive. Thank the gods." She stifled yet another sob as it rose in her throat, biting her lip furiously. _They would not see her cry. _

Released from Tristran and Mordred's death grip, Grainne sat up and wrapped the tracker in a fierce embrace. "As are you, Banna. Fearghus, come out – it's Banna." The young man's lanky figure came stumbling out of the bushes, dusting leaves and dirt from his clothes. He came and knelt awkwardly beside the two hugging women, hesitating slightly before launching himself in as well. The two women chuckled tearfully as he buried his face in Banna's hair in embarrassment.

"Banna, we were about to leave," he said, his voice muffled. He pulled back finally, disentangling himself from the clumsy embrace. "We were waiting to see if you and Donaith were still alive, if you would come back." His eyes, swimming with unshed tears, glinted in the faint starlight. "Banna, we're… we're the only ones left. They…"

Grainne put a hand on his arm. "Let me explain. But first, who are these men?" Mordred and Tristran stood uncomfortably at a safe distance from the tangle of Picts, Tristran cleaning a dagger on the rough wool of his trousers. Mordred appeared to be examining a leaf intently.

"This will take much explaining," warned Banna, beckoning the two Knights over. "But first you should know that Donaith…" She ducked her head, unable to continue.

Fearghus groaned. "No." Grainne shook her head mutely, her face a mask of shock.

"Banna, I am so sorry," she whispered. "This is all my fault… I was a fool."

Banna looked up in confusion. "Why? You have not done anything, Grainne."

"Not directly, sweet. Ah, I deserve to be damned for what I have done," Grainne whispered, her glance flicking to the Knights. "Can they understand us?"

"Every word," said Mordred in a friendly fashion, nodding respectfully to Banna's leader. Grainne stared impassively at him for a moment, then turned and gave her tracker an ominous frown.

"I can understand now why this will take much explaining," she said coldly, sliding a long gutting knife from its sheath. The atmosphere suddenly became very tense; the silence around them louder than it had been before. "Why, Banna, are there two Roman Knights standing two spans away from us, _alive_?"

"Well," began Banna, twisting her hands anxiously in the face of her leader's angry glare. _This was going to be interesting. _"Donaith and I were tracking Murchadh, you see…"

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Tristran listened to the two Pict women babbling to one another, watched worriedly by the younger one. _He doesn't hide his emotions well, _thought the scout to himself as the dark-haired youngster sat back on his haunches, rubbing long, pale hands over his face. Tristran frowned. The thick, dark head of hair, the strong cheekbones, the pale green eyes… The boy reminded him of someone, but he simply could not place the memory. It could have been anyone. The boy looked like most of the other Picts here in Britannia, yet there was something distinctive about his face that tugged at some long forgotten…

"…Tristran. Tristran?" Tristran blinked as Mordred shook his shoulder, dragging him out of his troubled ponderings. The second-in-command cleared his throat and nodded towards the women, who had stopped talking. The tall blonde one, whom he assumed was the leader of the small group, stood up and sheathed the gutting knife, walking over to them.

"Banna has told me how you came to be here. I see that you are the Sarmatian Knights against whom we have fought," she said in heavily-accented Latin, lifting her chin proudly as she came to stand before them. Tristran was surprised. He had not expected a Pict, let alone a female Pict, to have learnt the language of their Roman invaders; but as always, the natives of Britannia continued to surprise him. Not in a good way, either. Mordred did not seem to share his astonishment, however; instead leaping straight into conversation.

"Will you continue north with us, then?" he asked in his usual confident manner. The woman almost visibly bristled with indignation.

"I think you mean to ask me if _you_ can join_ us_ as we continue north," she replied tersely, her chin lifting even higher. _Any more, woman, and you're going to do yourself a serious injury, _thought Tristran drily. Bloody Woads. An insufferably proud and vain race.

Mordred smiled serenely at her. "I hardly think the wording of the question matters, when the killers are getting further and further away as we speak. Tristran and I plan to head north, and I expect you and your companions are doing the same. There is safety in numbers, and a greater chance of… disposing of the brothers and their allies. Do you agree?" Though he seemed outwardly relaxed, after years of fighting and training beside Mordred, Tristran knew that the second-in-command was aggravated by the woman's lack of respect.

The woman shrugged in deliberate indifference. "Very well. Do you agree to put aside previous grudges and alliances in the face of this atrocity?"

"If you shall do so, so shall we," replied Mordred, using the same formal tone as the arrogant leader.

"Are you willing to swear oaths to this effect? To guarantee safety within this unit?"

Tristran frowned. "Do you mean to form an alliance with us?" he asked, examining the woman carefully for signs of deceit. _What was he thinking? Of course there would be signs of deceit – she's a Woad. Liars and sneaks, the lot of them._

"Only a temporary one," she replied, acknowledging him for the first time with a curt tip of her head. "But strong and binding, all the same. Would you honour it, Sarmatian? Or would it be a waste of all our _valuable_ time?" Though sorely tempted to agree with the last part of the question simply to irk her, Tristran nodded.

"This is settled then?" asked Mordred amiably, smiling over the woman's shoulder to where Banna and the boy remained talking quietly to one another. Banna looked over quickly as if sensing their attention on her, and cocked her head questioningly at her leader.

"Yes," said the woman finally, spitting into the palm of her hand. Mordred stepped forward and did the same, and they shook hands. The woman had evidently recognised Mordred as the leader of the Sarmatian duo, and so completely ignored Tristran. Good. He didn't want her saliva muddying his hand.

The woman gave Mordred a terse nod, then walked back to join her two companions. Mordred turned and made an exasperated face at Tristran, his hand resting ever-so-slightly against his wounded side. Tristran frowned. Though he was not a skilled healer by any means, he would have to take a look at how it was mending. The hard riding couldn't have done the healing process any good; and though he was tough, Tristran was sure that the second-in-command would be feeling sore and pained. The cold weather would be making Mordred stiff in the muscles as well; and not for the first time, Tristran wished that spring would just hurry up and arrive. Like most of the other Knights, he lived for a hot Sarmatian summer; the cold, dreary, drizzling winters of Britannia stifling his spirit. He watched as Mordred leant down to scratch his leg, wincing slightly as he did so.

"How is your wound?" he asked quietly, not wanting to draw the blonde woman's attention to their conversation. It was a stroke of bad luck that she could understand every word they were saying, that was for sure.

Mordred smiled forcefully. "Mm… it's not painless." He touched it lightly, his face pale in the faint moonlight. "What do you make of Grainne?"

"Who?"

"The blonde woman," sighed Mordred. "Really Tristran, for a scout, you don't pay much attention."

Tristran grunted. "I read the land, not people. And what do names matter in the face of our purpose?" The two men walked slowly over to their horses, Tristran noting with sadness the neatly-arranged row of corpses near the ashes of the campfire. Though he was no friend to these Picts – or Woads, whatever they preferred to be called – he could not help but distantly sympathise with their loss. A similar scene had greeted him after his first… But he would not think of that. Never. He shut the rising images away in his mind, smothering them immediately thanks to years of practise. When you were a soldier, learning to fight and kill was the easy part. If you could learn to suppress the memories of the fighting and killing… Well, you'd be a lucky man.

"What's on your mind, Tris?" asked Mordred, interrupting the scout's morbid thoughts.

Tristran reached into the saddlebags and pulled out something that resembled food. He sniffed it doubtfully, holding it out for Mordred to inspect. "Good to eat?"

Mordred gave him a long-suffering look. "Would my opinion make any difference? Let's be frank: you'll eat anything. Hurry up and eat, then tell me why you stared at the boy for so long." His eyebrows shot up as the double meaning in his last words hit him. "You weren't looking at him in… _that _way, were you, Tr…"

"No! No." Tristran gave his fellow Knight a disgusted look and returned the uncertain food item to the saddlebag from whence it came. "He reminds me of someone. I can't place the face, however."

Mordred rolled his eyes. "I won't even ask you if you can remember their name. _What do names matter in the face of our great purpose, Mordred? I am determined to be rude and gloomy, la-di-dah-di-dah._"

"I don't speak like that! Gods, you're childish, sometimes." Tristran exclaimed heatedly. _Was it even possible to have a serious conversation with the man? _

"Never mind," said Mordred, waving his hand dismissively. "Is it a bad association?" At Tristran's confused look, he elaborated. "The face. Does the boy awake a bad memory in you? I certainly don't recognise him from anywhere, so he's not from around the outpost."

"It's not _him _that I recognise," said Tristran slowly, sifting through his memories with no success. "Someone who looks… Oh, it doesn't matter. We should be leaving." Here they were making small talk as the murderers fled north, and as Arthur probably waited for them back at that godsdamned forest trail in the middle of nowhere. Their commander was normally a very staid and even-tempered man, but when they finally arrived back at the outpost – _if _they finally arrived back at the outpost – he had no doubt that he and Mordred were going to face one of Arthur's legendary rages. Lancelot hadn't spoken for two weeks after Arthur called him in to "have a discussion" about the curly-haired Knights numerous absences from training. Something to do with a wench or five, Tristran recalled with a smirk. The hate that the commander and the womanising Knight harboured for one another bordered on amusing – well, to Tristran at least. He had been told that his sense of humour was unconventional, however.

"… Tristran? Tristran, you're getting dreamy in your old age. Sharpen up a bit, man! You're supposed to be the vigilant scout, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Tristran, scowling under the cover of his messy hair as he searched for something to eat. _Where's that dried meat? I'm sure it was…_

"Sarmatians!" called the blonde woman suddenly, beckoning them over. Tristran and Mordred led their horses over to where the Picts were crouched, the tracker drawing something that looked like a map in the dirt, pointing out locations to the boy.

"**How can we be of assistance?**" enquired Mordred in mock-politeness. Tristran doubted that the Picts noticed it, though – with years of experience behind him, even _he_ couldn't tell when the second-in-command was being sarcastic or not.

"There is something you should know, as we are to be allies," said the woman firmly in Latin, gesturing for them to sit down.

"We have not yet been introduced to your friend," said Tristran quietly, nodding towards the boy. The lad's eyes flicked up at Tristran through his dark eyelashes. _Ah. So he speaks Latin. _

"His name is Fearghus," the blonde woman said brusquely. "You can talk with him later – if you speak Pictish. He does not speak your language." Tristran noted her lie, and stored it away for future reference. "Now, we must talk. I know the reason for the brutal attacks on both our people and yours. I will speak in my language, so most can understand." She paused, as though gathering her thoughts.

"Excellent. Tris, I'll translate if you need me to." Mordred leaned forward encouragingly. The blonde ran a filthy, tattooed hand through her hair, sighing.

"**Cathalan, son of Coinneach, he is called. He is the reason for all the deaths**." The tracker looked up sharply. _She has not been told the reason either, _Tristran observed, watching the reactions around the circle cautiously.

Mordred growled. "**Then tell me where to find the bastard. By all the gods, I'll slice him ear to…**"

"**No**!" exclaimed the woman, shaking her head. "**No, it is not like that at all**."

_Then hurry up and tell us how it is, _thought Tristran in exasperation. He glanced at the sky. Judging by the position of the moon, it would be daylight in a few hours. As the minutes passed, their quarry was getting further and further away, and he'd be damned before he let them escape. 

Percival's death would not go unavenged.

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**Please review! If you have any questions, feel free to PM me also. :)**


	8. Heirs and Hunting

**Disclaimer: I don't own King Arthur, and I'm not making any profit from this story.**

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**Chapter Eight: Heirs and Hunting**

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Banna watched the conversation between Grainne and the two Sarmatians carefully, taking note of their expressions and movements. Though she could not understand what they were saying, she could read the language of their bodies with relative ease, and this did not comfort her. Despite Mordred's confident, friendly tone, he was clearly annoyed; and though the scout remained silent and still, Banna could see from his sharp glances that he too was irritated. As she watched them, Fearghus nudged her ribs with his elbow.

"She needs to improve her manner with others outside the tribe, I think," he murmured, as they watched Grainne lift her chin proudly at the Sarmatians. Banna nodded emphatically, making a face. "Do they mean us harm, Ban? Can we trust them?" The lad's face was open and anxious, and Banna patted his arm reassuringly.

"I believe so. Especially the taller one, Mordred. He seems friendly, unlike the scout." The Knight in question appeared to be in a perpetual state of boredom or sullenness, but it was probably because he was grieving for his friend. "Oh, yes, I almost forgot – Mordred he told me something very interesting when I was trying to kill him," she said thoughtfully, mulling over the Knight's previous words in her mind.

"When you were trying to… Banna!" asked Fearghus in disbelief, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. "That's an interesting time to tell stories. If they're so harmless, though, why were you trying to kill him?"

Banna shrugged. "It was a precaution. I didn't know who he was, so…"

"You've been spending too much time around Donaith," smiled Fearghus. At the look on her face, his smile crumpled and he reached forward. "Oh, Banna, I forgot, I'm so sorry… I shouldn't have…" he whispered miserably, his hand hovering over hers awkwardly.

"It's fine, Ghus. Don't trouble yourself." She smiled weakly at him, and cuffed him lightly on the side of the head in an attempt to lighten the mood. "And I did not spend too much time around him. I'm just a cautious person, and Mordred didn't look trustworthy."

Fearghus looked over at the Knight, who was currently smiling broadly and clapping his companion on the back. "Uh-huh," he said dubiously, earning him another cuff to the ear. He squirmed away clumsily, chuckling. _I have to be strong, _thought Banna fiercely, her throat aching from the effort of holding back her grief. _I must be brave, and quick, and alert. _

"_As _I was saying," she said quickly, trying not to think about the past. "Mordred mentioned that he was the grandson of Morgaine, and the son of… Oh, I can't remember her name."

His mirth forgotten instantly, Fearghus turned to stare at the Knight in shock. "The… but… His mother's name, it wasn't… Morwen, was it?" He looked back at Banna, his pale face even paler than usual.

"I think it was," she replied, looking at him carefully. "Do you know her?"

Fearghus seemed to shake himself out of his shock. "Er… friend of my mother's," he said brusquely, busying himself with retying the laces of his pack. "She married a Sarmatian that served here a long time ago. We have not heard from her once since she left, but…" He trailed off, staring at Mordred once more. "He has her look."

Banna frowned at his odd behaviour, but let the matter drop. She'd find the cause of it soon enough. "But Morgaine is the Great Seer, is she not? The one from whose family line the leaders of the highest tribes are chosen? Would that not make him…"

"The blood has been diluted by the Sarmatian," said Fearghus, shaking his head. "His mother was one of Morgaine's three daughters, all of whom have offspring eligible to leadership positions."

"You mean chieftains?"

"Yes. But those with pure blood, the blood of this land only, are fully eligible. He could only achieve a high-ranking position if many either died, or gave up their positions. One of the daughters, Nimueh, has had a great many children, all of pure blood. All hungry for power. Her husband is quite the opportunist, so if this Mordred was to make his heritage known, he'd have to make it clear to Merlin that…"

"Who is Merlin?" asked Banna curiously. The name was unfamiliar to her. _And how, my young friend, do you know so much about this?_

"The leader of a group of tribes further to the south, and Nimueh's husband. I think they're trying to populate the land solely with their offspring – they must have at least twelve children. Clever man, Merlin – very opportunistic, like I said. They suffer the heaviest casualties of us all, being so close to the Roman settlements, but his attacks on them earns him favour in the eyes of the Great Seer. When she finally decides to distribute power and land to her kin, I expect they'll reap a rich reward."

"So," said Banna curiously, "this Merlin – he rules here?" She drew a quick map on the ground of the land beyond the Wall, marking in locations. An old friend to her father had once come to stay at their home for a winter many moons ago, and he had taught her to write and how to draw maps. A pointless exercise, in her father's opinion, but it had been a long and fierce winter, and there was not much else to do inside the close confines of their hut. Banna's brother and sister had also learnt map-reading and general reading and writing from the stern old man as the winter crawled by, icy and blisteringly cold. _How I miss my family, _Banna thought absentmindedly.Fearghus leaned forward to study the drawing in the dirt, evidently no stranger to maps either.

"Yes, see… If you just move your stick here," he said, guiding the twig that Banna was holding to a certain point on the map. "This is where he stays most of the time. And then, when he wants to launch an attack…"

"Ahh, I see." Banna traced a line from Merlin's encampment to the Wall. "Travellers going north – or coming south – would pass right through their territory. Tell me, Fearghus, how do you know all of this so…"

"Banna! Fearghus! We must talk." Grainne interrupted their conversation with an apologetic smile. "You'll have to continue this later, I'm afraid. For now, there is something that must be shared between us and out new allies."

"You have formed an alliance with them?" gasped Fearghus, his face uncertain. "Is that… well, is it allowed?"

"Temporary alliance. The circumstances are extraordinary, as you already know, Fearghus." Grainne turned and hollered over her shoulder, "Sarmatians!" as Banna looked confusedly at Fearghus. At her questioning look, he shrugged.

"You'll find out in a minute," he said ominously. "Grainne told me not to say anything until she said so. Sorry, Ban." The Sarmatians walked over to join them, leading their magnificent horses. Next to these fabulous creatures, Banna's little pony Peigi looked a little… silly. But Banna loved Peigi dearly, and she could not bring herself to be too jealous.

"How can we be of assistance?" asked Mordred politely, coming to sit beside Fearghus. Grainne replied in Latin, and the scout mumbled something, looking quickly at Fearghus. _A request for an introduction? _guessed Banna, as Grainne replied briefly. They talked for a moment longer in Latin, until Grainne finally reverted to their own language. It was quickly becoming all too confusing for Banna, and she was beginning to feel out of her depth. There was something going on here, and she felt a frisson of fear at the seriousness on Fearghus' face.

"Cathalan, son of Coinneach. He is the reason for all the deaths." At the unexpected statement, Banna tried to keep the surprise from showing on her face. _Cathalan? But he was one of the nice ones, the quiet ones…_She remembered taking the boy out on a hunting trip once, and commending him on his skill. She vaguely remembered that he had a great love for nature, and was constantly stopping to examine plants and animal tracks; often commenting to her about the beauty of their surroundings. He would have been a good apprentice, but now, who knew?

"Then tell me where to find the bastard," snarled Mordred fiercely. Banna shared a meaningful glance with Grainne at the outburst. _Things are not always what they seem, _she thought forbiddingly. _Mordred is not merely the friendly, kind soldier he would have us believe. _Perhaps these Sarmatians were more dangerous than they thought.

"No! No, it is not like that at all," exclaimed Grainne, shaking her head vehemently. "It is not his fault, but mine." She paused again, and took a deep breath. "It may take a while to explain this, but I will be as brief as possible. Fearghus, you can mention anything you think I have missed." Fearghus nodded silently, his eyes downcast, and Grainne began.

"You have all no doubt heard of the practise of fostering the children of powerful families. A child is often sent to a place where their parents believe they will learn valuable lessons and make friendships that will aid them in their future ventures. You will have heard of the Great Seer, yes?" She glanced at Mordred and Tristran, and they nodded. "Her three daughters – Nimueh, Morwen and Brianag – and their families will receive power and lands when she either dies, or gives up her position as the Great Seer. The leader of our own tribe has ties with Brianag's husband, Coinneach; so on his eleventh name day, their son Cathalan was sent to us to be fostered." Banna barely stifled a gasp of shock. The son of one of their land's most powerful chieftains had been living with them for nearly six winters, and she had not even known. Grainne gave the tracker a remorseful look, and then continued.

"We were sworn to secrecy. Only the chief of our tribe and myself knew of the lad's true heritage. Coinneach's second-in-command, Henwas, was charged with looking after the child, as well as his best friend and companion, Fearghus son of Feargan. The story we used was that Henwas was our chief's cousin; and that he, his son and nephew were forced to come and stay with us because of Irish raids near their farm. No one thought to question the story, and for these past six winters, Cathalan, heir to Coinneach's chieftainship, has lived with us in safety and friendship." _Fearghus, too? _Banna was stunned. At the same time, however, she could understand the need for secrecy – the power games played by the chieftains put the lives of their children in danger. It was not unheard-of for heirs to be killed, regardless of their age and importance.

Grainne pulled a water flask from one of her pockets, and took a deep swig before going on. "Coinneach governs a territory on the western coast of our land, much-raided by the dogs of Eire." She glanced at the scout. "You might know it as Hibernia, as the Romans call it. I will refer to it as such, from now on." Mordred, who had been keeping up a steady translation for the Tristran, paused as the scout nodded. "So, the people of Hibernia often launch raids against Coinneach's land and people. Coinneach fights beside his men as they kill the invaders, and during one such battle four winters ago, among those he killed was a young man, of a similar age with Fearghus here. Insignificant at the time – on the battlefield you must kill, there is no time for consideration or careful planning – but it was later discovered that he killed the son of one of Hibernia's great leaders."

"So they want revenge," said Mordred softly, and Grainne nodded.

"We did not hear this news for two years, however. Coinneach and Brianag could not send a messenger to our far-off settlement without rousing suspicion, so when Murchadh and Iurnan arrived, injured and begging for shelter, we did not think to turn them down. Before we knew it, they became permanent residents – we desperately needed hands to help bring in the crops, and they were fit and willing. We trusted them, though we should have listened to Donaith. He never liked them, never trusted them. It's too late now, however."

"They were always kind to Cathalan and me," said Fearghus suddenly, fiddling once again with the lacings of his pack. "But sometimes, they were too kind. Cathalan liked them, though. We never thought to be in the least suspicious." He fell silent once more, and Grainne picked up the story.

"Then the time came for another training expedition. We…"

"Do you do one each year, or something?" asked Mordred curiously. Grainne snorted derisively.

"Are you always so subtle, Knight? Allies we may be, but when the time comes for us to part, I'm not going to watch you scurry back to your commander with all our secrets." Mordred grinned unashamedly, and Banna could not help but like him. As she looked away from the smiling Knight, she thought she noticed the smallest, most fleeting glimpse of a smile cross the scout's face, but she could not be sure.

"Continue, if you please," said Mordred, leaning forward slightly. "Apologies for the interruption."

Grainne grunted. "Hm. Where… Ah, yes. The training expedition. Cathalan is a good fighter, very strong and determined. He will make a great leader on the battlefield one day, but I realised that in order for him to become so, he must undertake further training. A foolish decision, but it is done now. After much negotiation with both our chief and Henwas, Cathalan and Fearghus were finally allowed to come on the expedition. Cathalan was very eager, Fearghus… less so." A deep flush suffused the young man's face, and Banna's heart went out to him in pity. She wanted to growl at Grainne for her lack of tact, especially in front of strangers; but the leader did not take kindly to being corrected, so Banna merely nudged Fearghus' knee subtly with her own in a show of support. He smiled faintly, though he did not look up. _His path lies away from the battlefield, and there is no shame in that. _At least, not in her eyes.

"…so he has been stolen, then?" Mordred was asking Grainne.

She spat on the dirt beside her. "Yes. They will take him hostage, I expect, and demand much from Coinneach and Brianag. Perhaps they will kill him. It was a clever trap, and one that has been long-planned. Your friend," she said, directing the statement at the Sarmatians, "was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am sorry. I fear that Banna and Donaith were not, however."

"We were lured away," said Banna, speaking for the first time. "I see that now. We could have defended…"

"But you couldn't have," interrupted Grainne, holding up her hand. "It is done now, as I have said before. Now we must retrieve Cathalan, before he is killed and before Coinneach is forced to make agreements with the Hibernians. You can avenge your friends' deaths once we catch them, Sarmatians; as we will avenge Donaith. But our priority is retrieving Cathalan." Both the Knights nodded, and Banna inclined her head.

"We should leave," said the scout. _Is that all he knows how to say? _wondered Banna to herself as she got up and walked over to fetch Peigi.

"Do you still have horses?" she asked, suddenly remembering the slain horse down in the bushes. Grainne nodded.

"Though not our own. I will ride Coiseam's pony, and Fearghus will take Dearbhail's mare. The rest have run far from here, or are dead."

"What about the bodies?" asked Fearghus distraughtly, looking over at the neatly-arranged row of corpses. "We can't just leave them like that."

Grainne shrugged helplessly. "It grieves me to do so, but we must. There is no time. We will come back, and honour their spirits. Banna, I heard you speaking the blessing for them; Fearghus and I have said the prayers. It is all we can do for now." Tears glittered in her green eyes, and she walked quickly away, muttering something about finding her horse. Banna smiled sadly at Fearghus, and squeezed his shoulder.

"I'm sorry about Cathalan. You must be worried."

He smiled tightly. "Yes, but at least he's alive. The rest…" he gestured towards the bodies of their comrades, "They died for us, Banna. They had no choice, but they were killed. I would do anything, _anything _to get them back."

"But you can't. It's done, Ghus, and we must focus on finding Cathalan. We will grieve once this is over." The words were difficult to say, but they had to be said. She did not want to lose Fearghus because he was distracted or guilty.

"Do you hate him? Cathalan?" asked Fearghus, grabbing her arm as she went to check her saddlebags.

Banna frowned. "No, of course not. He had no choice in this; he can't help who he is. You are both one of us, Fearghus. Never doubt that, understood?" She gripped his shoulder firmly and lifted his chin with her other hand. "Did Cathalan paint that tattoo for you?" she asked, noticing the design on the young man's cheek.

"Oh. Yes," said the young man sadly, running his fingers over the markings. "They're leaping salmon, a stag, and a boar. The three things we decided we most wanted to eat when we arrived back home."

Banna smiled. "And where so you think you'd be finding those, eh? Near _our _poor old camp? Mm… I doubt it." Fearghus rolled his eyes at her dramatically.

"Dreams sustain me, Ban."

"Yes, but dreams are not the stuff that meals are made on." She poked him in the ribs, and walked over to ready Peigi. It was going to be a long, hard ride north – she just hoped that she'd have enough food.

"How many bannocks have you got left, Ghus?" she called across the clearing, examining the three pitiful little rolls she had left. Fearghus grimaced.

"Only four. Do you think it'll be enough?"

"Keep your eye out for animal prey on the ride, not just human," she replied, wishing that it was summer, or at least autumn. There would be berries, then, and other food to be foraged. Prey was scarce on the ground at this time, too, but food was not their main concern.

"Banna!" Banna looked up from the saddlebags as Grainne approached, holding a small skin bag. Her heart began to thud against her ribcage, the reality of the situation truly making itself known to her. "Will you make the woad paint?" Banna nodded wordlessly, holding out her hand to receive the bag of deep blue powder. Fearghus approached as she crouched down and poured some of the powder into a small clay bowl from her travelling pack.

"A great honour," he said, watching as she fished around in one of her deepest pockets. "Though I hope you don't mean to make it the same way Henwas likes to." Henwas was well-known for his opinion that urine was the best liquid with which to mix the woad powder; a method that Banna found a little disgusting. She finally withdrew a small clay flask wrapped in rope, and withdrew the stopper. The last of her…

"Mead?" Fearghus groaned longingly. "Why didn't you tell me about this before? Are you sure you want to use it for making the dye, because we could always…"

Banna tipped the contents of the small bottle into the clay bowl and grinned. "Oh… sorry, Ghussy. My hand slipped."

"You torture me," wheezed the young man, holding a hand to his heart. "Do you need some water for it, too?" He held out his own water flask, and Banna nodded gratefully, tipping a small amount in. She then mixed it all together with a small clay pestle until its consistency was thick and smooth. Fearghus called Grainne over, and all three knelt solemnly around the small bowl, dipping their fingers in the thick dye.

"There is no turning back, now," said Grainne, her voice distant. The other two nodded, and with a shiver, Banna began to draw the designs.

_Spiral, eagle, leaping deer. Horse, hound, curve and knot. _

The hunt had truly begun.

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**A/N: There's some interesting information out there on the web about some of the things I included in this chapter. You can get an idea of some of the Pictish designs mentioned by typing "Pictish designs" into google images; and it was actually quite interesting reading about how the woad paint is made – I'd recommend googling it, too, if you're interested. By the way, bannocks are a bit like bread rolls. **

**The pronunciation guide, as always (and from now on, 'd' means deceased, if I put it next to a name)…**

**Grainne – GRAWN-yuh**

**Feargan – FER-gun**

**Brianag – BREE-uhn-uhk **

**Nimueh – NIM-whey**

**Peigi – PEG-ee**

**Coiseam – KOSH-um (d)**

**Dearbhail – JER-vul (d)**

**Donaith – DO-nee (rhymes with 'bonny') (d)**

**Cathalan – KA-hul-an**

**Coinneach – KOIN-nyuch**

**Grainne – GRAW-nyuh**

**Fearghus – FEAR-ah-gus**

**Murchadh – MOOR-ah-chu**

**Iurnan – YOOR-nun**


	9. Traitors and Trees

**A/N: I'll use the Roman names when I'm naming countries or places. Caledonia is Scotland (beyond Hadrian's Wall, in this case), Hibernia is Ireland, and Britannia is – yep, you guessed it – Britain. Happy reading, and please review if you'd like to! **

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**Chapter Nine: Traitors and Trees**

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Mordred watched in fascination as the three Picts knelt around the small clay bowl, painting their arms and faces with intricate, swirling designs in woad. The blue paint stood out starkly against their pale skin, and he watched as the tracker trailed lines of woad over her arm, a leaping deer forming under her fingers as if by sorcery. His mother had talked of the woad paint often, of the strange cold feeling as it settled into your skin. She talked of it with reverence, and now he could see why. The deep blue patterns were beautiful and strange, but at the same time familiar to him. _I am more Pict than Sarmatian, _Mordred realised with a surge of guilt. He loved his fellow Knights, and Sarmatia was the backdrop to his peaceful, loving childhood; but it was here, in the magnificent mountain ranges and mysterious forests of Caledonia that he truly felt at ease. He looked longingly at the three Picts, knowing deep in his heart that _he _should be sitting there with them, not looking on from the shadows. _His _skin should be painted and patterned, and… He gritted his teeth angrily. _Such thoughts are wrong and disloyal. I am the second-in-command of Artorius Castus, and I am a Sarmatian Knight. After fifteen years service in Britannia, I will return home. This is my fate. _

As began to turn away, the tracker, Banna, looked towards him, their eyes meeting across the clearing. He had no time to hide the naked longing written all over his face, and she stared at him in evident confusion. Frozen, they regarded one another: Sarmatian and Pict, chained and free, warrior and tracker, man and woman. With all his heart, Mordred wished to kneel beside her, to cross over and join the people he barely knew, but knew to be his own.

"Mordred," called Tristran, and Mordred flinched, released from the traitor's thoughts that wound around him like a sweet and gentle smoke. He looked over to the scout, who was holding both their horses with a long-suffering look on his face. "I'm not your stable-hand, Mordred," growled Tristran, pushing the reins into the second-in-command's hands. "Can you tell them to hurry? They're drawing pictures on themselves, and the killers are getting away. I'm tempted to go on by myself."

"It's a scared ritual, Tris. They have to do it, and we have to wait. That's all there is to it." Tristran raised an eyebrow at Mordred's snappy tone.

"The heir to Caledonia speaks, and the masses listen," he said dryly, hoisting himself up into the saddle. "How's that wound?"

Mordred ignored the scout's previous – incorrect – comment. "A bit better. When we stop next, would you help bandage it? I can't reach very well."

Tristran looked troubled. "Mordred, I should look at it now. If it festers…"

"Too late. They're ready," Mordred said, nodding towards the Picts who had stood up and were mounting their horses. As they trotted over, Mordred tried not to worry about his injury. Tristran's comment about festering echoed his own fears, but there was simply no time to be checking the bandages.

"**Banna and Tristran up front**," said the leader, Grainne, her horse tossing its head as the wind gusted into them. "**You two will track. The rest of us shall follow, but all must keep sharp eyes on the landscape. They could be anywhere.**" Mordred quickly translated for Tristran, his Pictish having become more fluent and easy with practise. He avoided Banna's eyes carefully, embarrassed at his earlier display. He hoped that she would not mention it. Ever.

With one final glance around the ruined campsite, Grainne nodded to herself. "**We stop for rest when the sun reaches its zenith,**" she said, her voice rising, the woad paint lending her a wild, untamed look. "**Go!**"

One by one, they cantered down the heavily-wooded slope, heading north. Mordred breathed the cold, biting air deep into his lungs and dug his heels into his mount's flanks. Tristran and Banna rode out in front, their postures alert and ready. Far above, the stars burned brightly in the blue-black sky, as cold as the wind, as the snow, as Mordred's own heart. _I am a traitor, _he thought miserably, scanning the landscape around him. _Even if only in thought. _Arthur's face haunted his thoughts, trusting and steadfast. These thoughts were not new to him, but the intensity with which he felt them now was worrying.

_My duty lies with Arthur and my Knights, _he told himself firmly. _The longings of my heart do not matter. _

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Sunrise. It had been many hours since they left the campsite, and the group of five riders was travelling fast across the misty landscape. The wind had died down in the dark hours of the early morning, and had been replaced by a pale haze, tinged pink and gold by the rising sun. A thin crust of snow and frost covered the ground, and Tristran felt as though he was riding through the middle of a cloud, suspended in the air. The silence was broken only by the occasional birdcall, faint and far away.

Their quarry was travelling fast and light, much like themselves. With their combined skills, Tristran and the Pict tracker were able to follow the trail of Murchadh, Iurnan and their companions with relative ease. The group evidently did not expect that they would be followed so soon, and had stopped for quite some time under the cover of some old trees, even going so far as to light a small fire. The distance between them was lessening, though there were still several hours between the two groups. _Hunters and prey, _thought Tristran, resting his hand momentarily on his sword. _But if we are the hunters, why do I feel so ill-at-ease? _He had never been one to baulk from danger, but going this far into Woad territory was just asking for trouble. He and Mordred may have formed a temporary alliance with _these _Woads, but there were dozens upon dozens of tribes roaming these lands; all of whom despised the Roman presence.

A flicker of movement caught Tristran's eye, and he looked to his left sharply. The Pict tracker had appeared at the top of a small crest, and was beckoning him over. She had ridden out ahead earlier to check for any changes in the tracks they were following, and was under strict orders from Grainne to report any signs of danger. At this point in time, the trail was still heading north-west, though somewhat haphazardly. The younger male Woad had mentioned that Iurnan liked to think of himself as a good tracker, and Tristran could easily recognise the clumsy attempts to put them off the scent. The only thing that troubled him, as he called Mordred over to translate the Woad tracker's message for him, was that this unsophisticated behaviour clashed with the tracker's account of the warriors. She had said that they were skilled and quiet, and had evaded even her notice. After tracking and scouting with her for merely a few hours, Tristran could see that this would not easily be achieved. _I have a bad feeling about this…_

"Tristran! What is it?" asked Mordred worriedly, cantering over.

"I just need you to translate for me. She's talking too fast, and I don't know how to slow her down." Tristran glared at Mordred as he smirked widely.

"Oh, very well," sighed Mordred finally, and Tristran gestured for him to follow as he rode over to the tracker. Their horses' breath steamed in the cold air, and the whole scene had a sense of deep enchantment to it. No doubt Mordred was terrified. For a man so fierce in battle, the second-in-command was deeply superstitious and believed in all number of supernatural beings. When Bors had mocked the 'faerie king' of Mordred's stories, Mordred had gone as white as a sheet, begging Bors to take his words back and making warding gestures with his hands. No doubt such beliefs were influenced by his Pictish mother – by all that was sacred, Tristran still could not believe the secret heritage of Mordred's family. Mordred – the heir, no matter how indirectly, to lands and power in Caledonia. It bordered on laughable, quite frankly. He glanced over at the man as they neared the tracker, and smiled to himself. Mordred's face was smeared with filth down one side; his thick, dark hair a wild and leaf-strewn tangle. His leather trousers were spattered with accumulated blood, and his once cream-coloured wool tunic was foul. Tristran knew that he did not look any better himself, but he wasn't virtual Pict royalty.

"**Mordred will translate**," he said to the tracker as she nodded a greeting to them.

"**I will begin, then,**" she said slowly, then started to speak. Very quickly. Tristran fought the temptation to smack the palm of his hand to his forehead. _How could they even understand one another? _

"I followed their tracks up ahead, and all seems well," Mordred translated quietly as she spoke. "There seem to be tracks from eight sets of horses, all riding close together. I find this unusual, but…" The tracker shrugged, and Tristran frowned. _No. There is definitely something wrong here. _

"I do not trust them," he said, and the tracker nodded as Mordred translated. "We have to be careful. Mordred, tell Grainne and Fearghus to be highly alert – expect trouble at any time." Mordred nodded and rode back down the slope, followed by Tristran and… whatever her name was. _If she only ever calls me 'scout', then I am free to call her 'tracker', _he thought to himself. _One of the few things that I __**am**__ free to do. _

As they resumed their places, albeit closer together, Tristran narrowed his eyes as he stared as far as he could into the distance. The rising sun cast their shadows out in front of them as they rode, dim and faded in the mist. They looked like the shadows of giants, tall and proud, like something out of an old tale back home. He thought briefly of Arthur and the other Knights, far behind them on their way back to the Wall. They would all be worried, or furious, or angry. _They may even think that we've died_. Actually, that was unlikely. Though it seemed like a lifetime, Tristran realised with surprise that they had only been gone for one day in total. The thought of Arthur and the Knights made him feel guilty, however, so he took a deep breath and focussed his attention on the trail, hoping that no nasty surprises awaited them ahead.

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As the sun climbed higher into the pale winter skies, the mist was dissipated; floating away into ribbons of nothingness as the sun warmed their backs. Banna's worries, however, remained. She had the most dreadful creeping feeling on the back of her neck, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something important. She glanced over at Tristran, his stiff posture and darting glances telling her that he felt the same way.

The scout was actually an ideal companion, despite his taciturn nature. He was silent and swift, and his eyes were sharp, picking up on many small details that Banna had expected him to miss. She even had to smother a pang of jealousy a few times as he noticed things that she almost passed by; but she dismissed these petty jealousies quickly, and was grateful for his presence beside her. She almost wished that he spoke her language more fluently; but then again, that would mean that Mordred would not have to translate. A definite loss. To her dismay, she found that she genuinely liked the narrow-faced Knight, and she sent up a prayer to the gods that they would never have to meet one another in battle. She tried telling herself that she could not befriend her enemies, that it was traitorous to do so; but then Mordred would smile at her, or make a silly jest, and all her plans to behave coldly towards him fell to pieces. He was simply too… nice. She couldn't bring herself to hate him. _Oh, these ridiculous feelings! _she reprimanded herself crossly. _I cannot afford distractions, not now. _

The sun was almost at its zenith – the agreed time for them to take a rest. _And about time, too, _thought Banna wearily, her eyes beginning to feel gritty with tiredness. They were all fatigued, having kept up a fast pace for many hours on very little sleep. On top of that, Mordred suffered from the pain of his wounded side, and Banna was still feeling slightly dizzy from the blow to the head she had received earlier. Grainne and Fearghus were relatively unscathed, escaping the killings back at camp with a few minor wounds and cuts. Tristran… well, any assailant would have to slice through several thick layers of dirt to reach skin; from his lack of injuries, it appeared that none had been up to the challenge.

"Banna – could you check those trees up ahead? We will rest there, if it's suitable." Grainne pointed to the wide cluster of trees spilling down in a river of greenery from between the folds of two steep hills, and Banna nodded. She and Peigi flew across the open plain towards the small forest, the little grey pony delighted at the chance to gallop freely, even for a little while.

They reached the thick wall of foliage at the edge of the forest quickly. Banna dismounted and walked warily into the cool dimness, Peigi's reins held in one hand, Donaith's axe in the other. Though she was not as skilled as her friend had been with an axe, she could still use one to chop and hack at things. Or people. She glanced around, looking for any signs of human presence, moving deeper and deeper into the trees. She took comfort from her pony's relaxed attitude – if anything bad was about to happen, Peigi was usually the first to get spooked. The trees here were mostly very old evergreens, the melting snow plopping occasionally from their thick, knotted branches. Banna nodded to herself finally, feeling that all was safe. There was a good feeling about this place, and the presence of oak and rowan trees reassured her. Her people particularly revered the rowan tree, with its crimson berries and arrowhead-shaped leaves, and Banna firmly believed that these gnarled old grandfathers would offer them whatever protection they could. They were bare of their leaves and berries now, as it was winter, but when summer arrived, she imagined that the small glade they were currently standing in would be beautiful. _All the same, _she thought as she mounted up and began riding back to her companions, _it would do to be very careful. _The uneasy feeling had returned as soon as she was out of the leafy embrace of the rowans and oaks, and she urged Peigi to go faster, wanting to return as quickly as possible.

"Safe," she reported to Grainne briefly, "I think we should go there as soon as possible. It's a good place – lots of old oaks and rowans." Grainne nodded, visibly relieved.

"I take it Peigi was not spooked, then?" she asked with a smile. Banna grinned back.

"Not in the least. I don't think we have anything at all to worry about." As they were about to ride off, the scout murmured something.

"What did he say, Mordred?" asked Banna quietly, noticing the uneasy look on Mordred's face. He laughed, but Banna could hear the nervous edge to his voice.

"Oh, it's nothing," he said, urging his horse into a swift canter. Banna kept up easily beside him.

"No, what was it?" she asked persistently, raising her voice so that he couldn't 'pretend' not to hear her.

"Oh… I think it translates into 'famous last words', or something," he called back, a forced smile on his face as he glanced at her. Banna raised her eyebrows, the scout's ominous statement reflecting her own misgivings about this whole situation.

She looked over her shoulder as they entered the woods, but even though there was no sign of anything behind them, she still couldn't get rid of the prickling sensation at the back of her neck.


	10. Stories and Speechlessness

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**Chapter Ten: Stories and Speechlessness**

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_Safe. _

Mordred felt nothing else but that comforting sensation as they stepped into the cover of the trees. No longer were they out in the open; no longer were they surrounded by the rolling hills and rocky slopes that were perfect hiding places for watching eyes. The feeling of unease had been growing in their group since sunrise, and so the safety and shelter offered by the thick greenery all around them was a welcome respite.

Long ago, Arthur had invited Mordred to sit with him in a small church as he held a vigil for Agravaine. Their fellow Knight had been killed in battle the previous day, and sensing that his attendance would bring his commander comfort, Mordred had agreed to come along. Arthur had told him that God's presence was all around them, but that it was in churches that their prayers could best be heard. Mordred was not a Christian, but he had been touched by the peacefulness of the stone building, and the steadying smell of smoke and candlewax had stayed with him for hours afterwards. A similar kind of stillness reigned in this small forest, nestled between the folds of two great hills. It was a different kind of calm to that of the church, but there was still something almost holy about it. Mordred paused, deep in thought and memory, running his fingers over the bark of an ancient chestnut tree.

"My grandfather showed me a chestnut tree once, deep in an old forest like this." Banna came and stood beside him, her voice pitched low and quiet. She rested her tattooed fingers respectfully on the knobbled bark beside Mordred's own scarred and callused hand. "He said that it had stood there for more than one thousand winters, and if it was kept safe, it would stand for a thousand more." Her words sent a shiver through Mordred as he looked at the other trees around them.

"How old do you think these ones are?" he asked, lowering his voice. He was not sure why he did so, only that it seemed the right thing to do.

Banna removed her hand from the tree and moved forward, the light dappling across her woad-painted skin. "These… I am not sure. They're old, you can feel it." The others had moved further into the woods, and Mordred and the tracker were left standing alone in the mossy quietness of the oaks and chestnuts, and all the other nameless trees that basked in the verdant gloom. To his surprise, Mordred did not feel tense or nervous around the tracker, despite the fact that she was supposed to be his enemy. _Rome's enemy, _he reminded himself. _We are of the same people, but circumstance has set us against one another. _He scratched his horse's neck gently, causing the stallion to let out a long sigh and lean into his hand. _Big old sook_.

"We should follow them," he said at length, leaning over and stretching as much as his wound would allow. Banna looked up from her silent contemplation and nodded, gesturing for him to follow her as she led her pony after their group. She waited a moment for him to catch up, falling into step with him as they moved further into the trees.

"It's safe here," said the tracker suddenly, echoing his earlier thoughts. Mordred glanced over at her.

"Just what I was thinking before. It's odd, because I usually like riding on the open stretches of land; but it felt… oh, I don't know. It just felt wrong, somehow. Do you…" He trailed off, feeling embarrassed. Here he was, a grown man and a Knight – not only a Knight, but a second-in-command – and he felt as nervous as a boy.

"Oh, yes," replied Banna, unashamedly shuddering, and looking over her shoulder. _Thank goodness, _thought Mordred. _I'm not going mad, at least. _"Something does not feel right. It's better now that we're out of sight, but I think we should still set patrols."

"What is 'patrols'?" asked Mordred, the unfamiliar Pictish word confusing him.

"What _are _patrols," Banna corrected him kindly. "They are… uh… watches. Things to make sure the enemies are not near."

"Oh, of course," sighed Mordred, rolling his eyes. "My uncle would be turning in his grave."

"Did he teach you our language?" asked Banna, smiling.

"Yes. He was a Knight, also. He introduced my father to my mother."

Banna looked at him expectantly. "Are you going to tell me how they met?" she prompted, still smiling. _Women, _thought Mordred despairingly. _What would they do without gossip and romance stories? _Of course, if he said that back home to his mother and sisters, he'd probably get a smack in the mouth.

"It was a slightly… what's the word? Unconventional. Yes, it was a slightly unconventional meeting," he said with a grin as he ducked a low-hanging branch. "You see, my uncle was on a patrol and his party was attacked by Woads."

"Dreadful creatures," sighed Banna beside him, shaking her head in mock-irritation. Mordred, taken aback – he'd never thought Woads could _joke_ – let out a bark of laughter.

"I think Tristran's having a bad influence on you," he said with a grin, and the tracker laughed. _Woads laugh? Oh, well. On with the story, _thought Mordred to himself, slightly bemused. "Anyway, they were attacked by Woads. A Pictish leader at the time had sons and daughters who were known to fight in that area, so my uncle's commander told the men not to kill anyone, but to take… erm, what is the word for people who are captured?"

"Hostages?" offered Banna.

"That sounds right. Five hostages were taken, and the rest escaped into the forest nearby. One of the captured Woads was my mother." He held a prickly branch back so that the tracker could pass through; and as he rejoined her, he continued. "So, they were kept at my uncle's outpost in one of the cells there until the Pictish leader made contact. They figured that if he didn't make contact by the end of the month, they would set the Woads free."

"You mean, kill them," said Banna drily. Mordred winced.

"It would be more _diplomatic_ if I was to say…"

Banna waved his protest away. "It was what, twenty winters ago? More? Just tell the story."

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Mordred huffily, and then pulled a face. "Gods, I'm turning into Tristran. So… the Woads were all kept in different holding cells, and my father was charged with watching over my mother. It was winter, so there wasn't much for the Sarmatian Knights to do, and they were low on guards. So my father guarded my mother for three weeks, day in and day out. Presumably they got talking, as my mother was taught Latin when she was a child. You'd have to ask my mother if you wanted all the pretty, romantic details." He made a face, though he did not really mean it. He wasn't going to admit to a stranger, let alone a Pict stranger, that he actually liked all the details. It was not considered very _manly_, and he did have a reputation to uphold, after all.

"Yes, well. I have heard that all the greatest romances start in prison," said Banna, raising an eyebrow dubiously. "I'm surprised she talked to him. The children of the Great Seer were taught to hate Rome from an early age, so they say."

"You haven't met my mother," said Mordred gloomily, as they approached the clearing where the others were setting up camp. "If someone tells her to do something, she'll go out of her way _not_ to do it. The long and the short of it is, my mother and father fell in love. When the missive came from the Pictish chieftain – my grandfather – offering to pay ransom for the hostages, she refused to return. They were wed in secret, much to the displeasure of, well, everyone. My father was in the last few weeks of his service, anyway, so their relationship only had to endure the prejudice for a short time."

"Your grandfather did not launch a rescue mission to retrieve his daughter?" asked Banna, frowning. "That is most unusual."

"Again, I had to leave some parts out for the sake of diplomacy…"

"Picts died in a rescue attempt?"

"Several."

"Ah."

"Yes. But, like you said, it was twenty or so years ago."

"_I _can say that, Sarmatian," said Banna warningly. "You'd better not tell Grainne that particular story, though. I can imagine her… displeasure."

"Mm," grunted Mordred as he lifted the saddle from his horse's back. "I wasn't going to, anyway. She doesn't strike me as the romantic type." They looked over to where the leader was sharpening her gutting knife with chilling speed and efficiency; then raised their eyebrows at one another meaningfully, chuckling. As Banna walked away to tie up her diminutive grey pony, Mordred's heart sank. _Oh, sweet gods, I'm __**chuckling**__ with a Woad. What is __**happening**__ to me? _

"Mordred." Tristran came to stand next to the second-in-command, his face grave. Not exactly an out-of-character expression for the scout, but he seemed more serious than usual. Mordred's heart sank even further.

"Tristran!" he said with false cheer, sifting through his saddlebags in search of something to eat. It also provided him with a convenient excuse not to meet the scout's eyes. Tristran did not reply, however, merely fixing him with that severe stare. Finally, Mordred gave up and met the scout's cool brown gaze, throwing up his hands in the air. _Bad idea, _wheezed Mordred internally as a spike of pain went through his side. "Tristran, I know you're not happy."

"Latin, Mordred," growled the scout. Mordred cringed as he realised he'd been speaking Pictish.

"Sorry. Look, we just walked back to camp together. I was friendly: you know me! I can't help it. And they're Rome's enemies, not ours. I'm not being a traitor, Tristran. I'm just… would you say something, please? And stop staring at me like that?"

"I was just going to tell you that I'm going hunting. I've run out of dried meat," said the scout, his face still expressionless.

"Oh. Well… do you want some company?"

Tristran finally showed some emotion, pursing his lips in displeasure as he leaned forward to speak quietly. "I think the blonde woman wants me to take the boy. Between… babbling… I think I heard 'good hunter' and 'quick'."

"Do you want me to ask her?" asked Mordred, and Tristran nodded. Fortifying himself with a deep breath, he walked over to the blonde leader. She had finished sharpening her gutting knife and had moved on to a small, sharp one with a wickedly curved blade. Mordred looked admiringly at the five other blades she had lined up beside her, waiting to be sharpened.

"They're well-made," he commented as she glanced up at him. He resisted the urge to flinch back. She had evidently borrowed Banna's kohl, the thick black smudges making her green eyes appear quite unearthly.

"I know much about knives. What is it?" she asked without preamble, ignoring his compliment. _So that's how it is, _thought Mordred sarcastically. _Huh. No more Nice Mordred for you._

"You want the boy to hunt?" he demanded brusquely, folding his arms across his chest.

"That's what I asked the scout," she replied.

"Is he adequate? He's very young." As he predicted, his words caused the woman to bristle.

"More than adequate. He is a good hunter, and would be of help to the scout. Is he frightened that the boy will attack him?" She smirked provocatively.

"From what I've seen, the boy's the only frightened one around here," said Mordred coolly, sending a silent apology to the blushing lad, who was seated within earshot. "Is he ready to go?"

"We're always ready," growled Grainne heatedly, narrowing her eyes at him in a menacing manner.

Mordred widened his eyes at her and shook his head. "Then tell him to go," he said, using his best 'are-you-really-that-idiotic' tone. As she narrowed her eyes even further, Mordred struggled not to do a small victory dance. _And that, wench, is how we do things in Sarmatia, _he grinned to himself as he turned away, nodding encouragingly to Tristran. The scout's jaw tightened in annoyance.

"He's coming, then?" he asked resignedly, slinging a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. Mordred nodded as the scout checked the bowstring. "See you soon, then. Hopefully there'll be some game, otherwise I'll have to hamstring the boy. Tell me, would he be tastier over a spit, or roasted in the coals?"

Mordred shook his head in alarm, Tristran's eccentric sense of humour not exactly appropriate at this point in time. "Don't let Grainne hear you say that. I've just raised her ire, so I'd be careful if I were you." Tristran gave his customary noncommittal shrug, and gestured sharply to the boy as he strode towards the trees. _Poor lad, _thought Mordred as the young man scrambled after the scout, grabbing his bow and arrows. Grainne watched them disappear into the trees, and as she looked away, her eyes met Mordred's. She glared fiercely at him, and returned to sharpening her knives with renewed vigour.

_Being despised is not the most pleasant feeling, _mused Mordred to himself as he seated himself on the mossy ground, taking out his own whetstone. _But, as always, two can play at this game. _

Resisting the urge to do a Bors-style cackle of glee, he began to sharpen his sword with long, threatening swipes.

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Tristran strode into the trees, making as little noise as possible. He heard the boy stumble after him, but after a moment the lad righted himself and moved with pleasing quietness. The tracker had taught him well.

Tristran hated forests. Though by now he was used to them and could navigate them well, he still felt claustrophobic and deeply uneasy at the presence of so many trees. The warrior in him baulked at the sheer number of hiding places for enemies, and his scouting instinct pointed out the hundreds of possible ambush scenarios available in such a setting. These two factors combined to make travelling through forests a living nightmare for Tristran, and he did all he could to avoid them. _And don't even get me started on the trees, _he thought, as he tried not to shudder at the looming closeness of the damned things. All those… leaves. He'd give anything to be back on the wide-open, honest plains of Sarmatia. Enemies did not lurk behind trees there. If they wanted to attack, they attacked. If they wanted to ambush you, they'd…

"**Excuse me,**" said the boy suddenly, his soft voice scattering Tristran's thoughts. He spoke slowly, making sure the scout could hear every word he said. It was futile, however.

"Don't bother, boy," grunted Tristran, glancing over his shoulder at the tall lad, "I know you can speak Latin. Don't try pretending."

"How did you know?" asked the boy in heavily-accented, but remarkably fluent, Latin. _What was his name again? _thought Tristran. _Ah, that's right. Fearghus. Fearghus the Frustratingly Familiar._

"You could understand what we were saying earlier. Does your leader know?"

"Grainne? No." At Tristran's snort, he caught up with the scout and grabbed his arm. "I…" He looked around guiltily. "Can you take us somewhere more private? I need to tell you something. I know you recognise me, and I know you, too." He lowered his voice at the last part, biting his lip. Tristran stared at him for a long time, trying to ascertain his motives. The boy did not seem to be the type to lead him into a trap; but then again, he had deceived his leader and she had not noticed. But the boy's worried expression and guileless manner decided him.

"Follow me," he said firmly, and headed deeper into the woods, heading to the area nestled deep in the folds of the twin hills. _So the boy knew him. _This troubled the scout deeply, for he had absolutely no idea who the boy actually was. He tried to draw his thoughts away from such uneasy territory, and instead focussed on the forest around them. Though they were moving swiftly, Tristran kept his eye out for any movement. He was quite hungry, and longed for some fresh meat, or just anything other than dried strips of the stuff. His stomach clenched with hunger, and he took back his last thought. He wouldn't mind some dried meat, actually.

The ground began to decline below them as they walked on, Tristran leading the boy into an area where he guessed there would be some sort of valley. Though he admittedly did not like forests, he had to hold back a small gasp of awe as they stepped into a grove of towering oak trees. Though leafless, the winter bareness made the clearly ancient oaks appear even more stunning in the pale golden light of midday. A small rim of frost still glittered on the underside of the branches, making it seem as if the trees were outlined with silver as the light caught them.

"Please, can we wait?" asked Fearghus quickly as Tristran prepared to go on. They had been walking for a good fifteen minutes, and so Tristran nodded, giving the surrounds a quick glance for any signs of listeners. Not that there'd be any here, but it always paid to look, especially in Britain. The Woads were like bloody dryads or something – they seemed to be one for every tree, crouching in its branches waiting to attack. But perhaps he was paranoid. The boy bowed his head and made a gesture with his hands, making it seem as though he was praying. The Woads seemed quite connected with trees, so he probably was. If Tristran recalled correctly, they held groves of oak trees such as this in particular reverence. At long last, the lad raised his head.

"What did you want to tell me?" asked Tristran curiously. "And why did we have to come here to do it?"

The boy swallowed thickly. "We should sit down. This may take a while." Tristran nodded towards the base of a towering oak, where the roots rose out of the ground in broad tangles. They walked over and sat down, the silence of the glade loud and somewhat awkward. Fearghus cleared his throat. "Right. You'd better get comfortable." Tristran nodded encouragingly, just wanting him to get on with it.

"You said there were a few things to say," he prompted, and the boy blushed.

"Yes, and I thought that you'd be the best person to say them to. I know you can be trusted, so…"

"Why don't you explain first _how _you know that you can trust me? Or, even easier, how you know me _at all?_" Tristran knew he sounded harsh, but this was all getting too deep for him. He just wanted to kill the Woads that killed Percival, then go back to the Wall and finish off the last five years of his service. Was it really that much to ask?

"How do I know you? That's easy enough, certainly," said Fearghus nervously, meeting the Knight's confused stare. "We've never met before, but believe me, I've heard enough about you over the years to feel that I have. I have read your name in letters a thousand times. I have seen pictures drawn of you in charcoal, in paints, in inks. Tristran of Sarmatia, Cathalan's sister called you, and she begged us never to harm you if we met." Fearghus stared long and hard at Tristran.

"Who…" Tristran trailed off, unable to speak; a brilliant, burning spark of hope kindling somewhere deep in his chest.

Fearghus gave him a small smile. "Cathalan's sister, Tristran, is Isolde of Hibernia."

The scout did not know whether to laugh, cry, sit there speechless, or run away.

Speechlessness seemed to be the most dignified option.

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	11. Death and Deals

**A/N: Firstly, I would like to apologise for that most dreadful and confusing of chapters – chapter eleven. Thankyou to my reviewers for providing some constructive criticism! Things were just too confusing and (to my utmost horror) bordering on Mary-Sue; so I've taken down the chapter, replaced it with this one, and fixed a mistake towards the end of chapter ten. Sorry about all that! So please, UTTERLY erase the dreadfulness from your mind and read from the beginning of chap. 10 onwards. Thanks again for the reviews, everyone – is this a bit better? Hopefully the story is back on track, now :)**

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**Chapter Eleven: Death and Deals**

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The silence stretched between them like a gaping maw, full of shock and unanswered questions, and as long as six years.

"Isolde," whispered Tristran at last. He swallowed tightly as the long-suppressed memories washed over him, painfully bright and clear, even now. _A cold breeze ruffles the grass, sending undulations across the green hills… "It's like the sea," she says, and smiles at him. She hasn't smiled for a long time, she's had no cause to… A deep green dress with gold embroidery. She looks beautiful: her hair is unbrushed, wild and tangled, a warm and lovely red… "Pictish bitch," they whisper as she passes, "Not worthy to walk in these halls, they should kill her, what use is a hostage?"_

For a hostage she had been, Tristran remembered. The daughter of an influential family of Picts, Isolde had been captured and held as a bargaining tool by the Hibernians. She had been living with a Hibernian lord and his family six years ago, when Tristran arrived at the great Hall accompanying Arthur on a diplomatic mission. While the commander had to spend most of his days indoors arguing politely with the bloody-minded Hibernians, Tristran had been free to wander the Hall, and the small town beyond. He had met Isolde whilst walking along beside one of the great spiked walls that fortified the Hall. She had been the first to speak to him, and had seemed undaunted by his short, reserved replies. After their first meeting, Tristran had returned to his room, bemused and confronted by the woman's easy cheerfulness and forward manner. She was surprisingly civilised for a savage Woad, but he didn't tell her that. He wasn't sure if he liked her or not, and so decided that he would return to the fortified wall the next day in hope of meeting her again. Just so he could decide properly, or so he told himself. As the days stretched into weeks, they met every day at the gate, and did the hour-long circuit around the wall together, chatting quite amiably (well, Isolde, at least). By the end of the third week, Tristran had decided that he liked Isolde the Pict very much.

They were both nineteen years old, and thought their friendship would last forever.

… _He's breaking his fast when he hears the news. "She's drowned," they say, "You cannot see her body. It is too damaged." He wants to anyway, but they bar his path and hold him back… They burn her corpse, wrapped in coarse linen. Under the grey skies, he stands alone, no others came to the funeral but Arthur and himself, no one stayed… "I will never speak of her again, and nor will you," he told Arthur, and the commander nods, and holds Tristran's secrets close. Arthur is a good man, he can be trusted. Isolde will be Tristran's secret, the only woman he ever…_

"Tristran?" asked Fearghus quietly, reaching out a lean, freckled hand.

Tristran flinched away from the boy, meeting his concerned grey-green eyes with flat brown ones. "Isolde is dead," he said, hating the finality in his words. _She's dead, she's gone, and I wasn't there to save her. _

Fearghus frowned. "No, she's not," he said, looking at Tristran incredulously. "Where'd you get an idea like that?"

"She drowned," growled Tristran, feeling the lump build in his throat. He coughed slightly, the old, familiar scowl settling over his features. Fearghus merely stared at him, looking surprised.

"Didn't you get her letter?" he asked confusedly.

"Last time I heard, the dead don't send letters," said Tristran bitterly, lacing his fingers together tightly, digging his short nails into the backs of his hands. The pain gave him something to concentrate on as he struggled to force his grief back into the back of his mind, where it usually resided. A sickly, black, bleeding lump; forever pressing on his consciousness.

"The letter," repeated Fearghus, "Didn't your commander give it to you? About the rescue? No?" Tristran merely stared at him incomprehensibly. The boy's shoulders slumped. "He didn't give it to you," he whispered, leaning his head against his hand wearily. "Bloody, cursed Romans."

"I won't have you speak of my commander that way," growled Tristran fiercely, his hackles rising at the lad's rude comments. Arthur was a friend to him, when most others were too afraid even to meet his eyes. Arthur was the only one who praised him for the dangers Tristran went through, for the daring missions and scouting expeditions into Woad territory far from the Wall.

"Oh, he's trained you well, hasn't he?" said Fearghus, a mocking twist to his smile. "You leap to his defence like a loyal dog. Just what the Romans want."

In a flash, Tristran flicked out a knife and held it to the boy's throat. "How dare you," he hissed furiously, digging the point in, coaxing a tiny bead of blood from the boy's pale neck. Fearghus held very still, pursing his lips.

"Isolde is not dead, Tristran. Cathalan's brother and his friends staged her death and rescued her, for they heard the Hibernians were planning to _kill_ her. They stole a boat and left under the cover of darkness, _leaving an explanatory letter with your commander._" The knife remained unmoving at the lad's throat.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" demanded Tristran, a horrible mixture of dread and hope and doubt spreading through him. _"But how do you know if your family is not dead?" he asked her one morning, as he escorted her along the wall. She looked at him, cocking her head in that funny way she had. "I'd just know," she said finally, shrugging one shoulder. She placed a hand over her heart. "As ridiculous as it sounds, I know I'd feel it, if they… died. In here." She patted her chest, and Tristran smiled faintly. "You're right," he said at last. "I'm always right, Tristran," she responded, a bright grin lighting up her face. "No… It is ridiculous," muttered Tristran, and Isolde laughed, giving his shoulder a light smack. _

Gods, how he missed her.

"Well…" said Fearghus uncertainly, his brow creasing slightly. "If you saw Cathalan, then you'd know right away. They're very alike."

"I want something more immediate," Tristran growled, shifting the knife slightly against the boy's warm skin.

"Tristran, I have _nothing. _Only my word," replied the boy, a note of panic creeping into his tone.

"I'm unwilling to take that after seeing how you lied to the tracker."

"Tristran, you have to trust me! _Please, _Isolde has been looking for you for six years!"

"I'm not hard to find."

"Well, she's not going to walk right up to the Wall, is she? Your men would kill her!"

Tristran glared at him. "She could find a way. If she was alive."

Fearghus' shoulders slumped. "Tristran, I don't know how to make you believe. Isolde. Is. Alive. I wouldn't lie about something like this."

"I won't believe you," said the scout coolly, removing his knife from Fearghus' neck, "until I see her. Alive. Breathing."

Fearghus shook his head. "You can't get to her, well, especially you. She's Coinneach's daughter, remember? And sister to his heir! You're a Sarmatian _and _a Roman slave, so…"

"I am not a slave," hissed Tristran, feeling the beginnings of a dreadful headache.

Fearghus winced. "Um, very well. Anyway, what I was saying was… what was I…? Oh, yes. The only way you could _possibly _see her is if you bought Cathalan home safely. Their father would be in your debt, and I'm sure he'd allow you to see her."

"This is a trap," said Tristran flatly. "You need more help to rescue your friend, so you try to net Mordred and I into the mission with lies."

"We do need you, Tristran, that's true. I can't fight, and Banna may be fast but she's a hunter, not a warrior. Grainne's our only hope, and Murchadh and Iurnan _and _their reinforcements would kill her. But I want to help Isolde." He paused, taking a deep breath. _Oh gods, he's going to cry, _thought Tristran in horror. "We grew up together, Tristran. Isolde and Cathalan are my best friends."

"How can you have seen her? She's been in Hibernia for six years, and you've been hidden further south with Cathalan for, what… six years?" Tristran raised an eloquent eyebrow, and the lad blushed.

"Some friendships run deeper than years," he replied quietly, his ears red. "I would do anything to help Isolde or Cathalan. Please, Tristran. I need your help."

Tristran looked at him incredulously. "Are you forgetting that you're Picts, and I'm a Sarmatian? Are you out of your _mind?_"

"Our enemies are Rome, not Sarmatia. Besides, Rome's beginning to pull back." At Tristran's surprised look, Fearghus shrugged. "We may live in huts made of mud and straw, Tristran, but we're not fools. Anyone with eyes can see the Romans are beginning to leave Britannia."

"Hm," grunted Tristran, trying to cover his shock. _And we thought they had not noticed. _

"Look," continued Fearghus, "You want revenge. Murchadh, Iurnan and your friend's killer are heading north, _with Cathalan. _We're after the same people, we've even formed a temporary truce, and if it all turns out well, we'll be capturing the same people."

"Killing," corrected Tristran blandly.

Fearghus looked mildly disturbed. "Er, yes. If you're there when we rescue Cathalan, he'll make sure you get safe passage into his father's lands, even into his father's hall. And that's where Isolde is."

Tristran frowned at the lad for a moment or so. "It's a lot of guesswork on your part," he said grudgingly.

Fearghus shrugged. "Not really. Cathalan's my best friend – sometimes I know what he'll do before he even does it."

"Let's hope this is one of those times," replied Tristran coolly, getting up and sheathing his knife. Fearghus stared at him in confusion.

"You'll do it?" he asked, comprehension dawning on his young face. "You'll actually do it?"

"Yes," muttered Tristran. "But I'd better bloody well see Isolde."

Fearghus leapt up and clapped the scout on the shoulder. "You will, I promise. Oh," he sighed, sagging with relief, "You must really love her."

Tristran scowled menacingly.

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	12. FallOuts and Followers

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**Chapter Twelve: Fall-Outs and Followers**

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To say that Mordred was having trouble accepting Tristran's story about Isolde would be an understatement. The three Picts sat off to the side of the clearing; eating barely-cooked pieces of a rabbit caught by Tristran, and watching the argument between the two Sarmatians unfold with ill-disguised interest.

"Are you joking, Tristran?"

"I don't joke."

"So you're telling the truth?"

"I don't lie."

Mordred sighed. "So not only are we riding north into dangerous territory to avenge the death of our friends, but we're also going to try and locate your long-lost love by means of ingratiating ourselves with one of the fiercest Pict chieftains in Caledonia."

"She's not my 'long-lost love'," muttered Tristran mutinously.

Mordred threw his hands up in despair. "Are you capable of giving me a straight answer? Forgive me, if I am finding all this a little hard to take in. And I'm also noticing a distinct lack of _anger _about the fact that Arthur's deceived you regarding the death of someone you love!"

Tristran's scowl deepened. "For the last time, I do not love…"

"You're not fooling anybody!" barked Mordred, his temper rising. "Why else would you have dragged us both into this?"

"Arthur is our commander," stated Tristran stoically, "and I would trust him with my life. He may not have received the letter. Even if he did, he would have had good reasons for keeping it from me."

"Tristran…" groaned Mordred, pacing back and forth angrily. "It is so _obvious _that he did it to keep you from going after her! It's selfish, cruel…"

"You will not speak of our Commander like that!" exclaimed Tristran, his voice low and angry. He could hardly believe the disloyalty that Mordred was showing towards their trusted leader, and felt an uncontrollable surge of anger rise up in him. "You shame yourself, and the rest of us Knights. How can you show such disrespect for Arthur – he who raised you up to a position that _you do not deserve_!"

"So speaks the _scout_," said Mordred, his tone laced with poison. An ugly sneer was beginning to form on Mordred's normally cheerful face, and Tristran felt the strangest twinge of triumph. _Not as easy-going as you would have us think, Mordred, _he thought. The second-in-command continued, stepping right up into Tristran's personal space. "Running back and forth, back and forth; all for a cause that is not our own! You risk your life every day, for what? To grovel to the Romans? Do _you _want to be second-in-command?"

In the background, the three Picts shifted around uncomfortably, pretending that they had stopped listening. The two Knights didn't even notice.

"I do it for my brothers," whispered Tristran, his voice so low that Mordred leant in even closer.

"What?" asked Mordred, his voice mockingly inquisitive. "Speak up – I value your opinion _greatly_!"

"I said, I do it for my brothers," replied Tristran, keeping his voice calm and even with a supreme effort of will. "For you, for Arthur, for our fellow Knights. I want to keep you all safe; I want us to return to Sarmatia together. Yet all you do is mock me, dismiss me, pass me off as strange and unlikeable." He paused, taking a deep breath and trying desperately to keep his composure. _I don't normally do this, _a small part of him complained bemusedly. _What am I __**doing**__?_ Despite his inner horror and embarrassment, however, the words just kept coming. "You wonder why I am always distant? It is because I'm thinking of ways to keep you all _safe. _I'm constantly watching for dangers; constantly picking out paths, trails, places to hide. And still you mock me." He shook his head in disgust at Mordred's rapidly paling, shocked face. "Quite the revelation, isn't it? Percival and Arthur were the only ones who recognised me as an equal. Only Arthur ever acknowledged the continuous struggle I go through to keep you all from _dying._"

An awkward silence followed his words, Mordred staring at Tristran as though he'd never seen him before.

_And it's true: you haven't, _thought Tristran bitterly. _For you and the others, I'm just a part of the landscape. Barely human at all. _

"Tristran…I…" whispered Mordred, all earlier signs of nastiness wiped away, "I'm sorry, I didn't… I didn't think…"

"None of you ever do," replied Tristran quietly, turning away to go and find something to eat. "That's my job, apparently."

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Banna watched the exchange between the two Knights with surprise and sadness. She kept her face blank as Grainne quietly translated their angry words to her and Fearghus; privately shocked at Mordred's cruel words to Tristran. _How could you talk to your friend like that? _she wondered, fingering the lime in her hair and feeling it crunch and crackle under her fingers. _I could never speak to brutally to Donaith. _

"I thought he was the nice one," whispered Fearghus, watching Mordred with narrowed eyes as Tristran walked away.

"Who – Mordred? I never liked him," whispered Grainne, taking a bite of rabbit and wincing slightly. "Gods! Who cooked this?"

"I did," said Banna reluctantly. "Sorry."

"Perhaps I'll prepare it next time, eh?" said Grainne, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips.

"That bad?" sighed Banna, despairing at her lack of any cooking skill whatsoever.

"Worse," confirmed Fearghus, earning himself a cuff on the ear from Grainne. Banna rolled her eyes, and tore off a hunk of rabbit meat for herself. Putting it in her mouth, she chewed it for a while.

"You're right," she said after a moment. "It's foul." Grainne and Fearghus sniggered at her pained expression, but their amusement quickly died down as the scout approached. His face was carefully vacant as he sat down beside Fearghus, reaching out to rip off a chunk of rabbit meat.

"Ohh, you don't want to do that," exclaimed Banna warningly, pushing his hand away.

"What?" asked Tristran, making the Pictish word sound strange with his heavy accent. Grainne quickly translated for him, and he nodded grudgingly; instead pulling a water-skin from his belt and taking a long swig. Mordred remained at the other side of the small clearing, pretending to check his horse's saddlebags. Banna watched both their movements carefully: Tristran gazing steadily and deliberately away from Mordred; Mordred's actions furtive and quick. _He's mortified, _realised Banna, _as well he should be. _Though she had liked the Knight initially, this side of him was decidedly less agreeable.

"Well," she said out loud, trying to distract herself from her troubled thoughts. "We should probably set a watch, while we get some rest."

"No," said Grainne suddenly, standing up and stretching her long legs. "We can't."

"What do you mean?" asked Fearghus incredulously. "Aren't we going to stay here?"

"That's what we've been doing," said Grainne firmly, holding out a hand to help the grumbling boy up. "Come on, go and ready your horses."

Banna swallowed back a cranky retort, straightening her shoulders and walking over to check Peigi's saddle straps for any loosening. She was utterly exhausted, her head was throbbing, and she wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for a few days. But Donaith's killers were getting away, and Grainne was her leader. She was utterly loyal and dedicated to both causes, so she shut her mouth and prayed to the Gods for strength and speed. The woad paint was stiff on her forearms, and the charcoal under her eyes made kept the wintry glare of midday at bay. She was no longer simply a hunter and tracker.

She had to be a warrior, now. For the sake of her friends.

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**Meanwhile, an hour or so behind Tristran, Mordred and the Picts…**

"Why have we stopped?"

"Well…"

"Oh, we haven't lost the trail _again, _have we? How is that even possible?"

"I knew this was a bad idea."

"It's worse than _bad, _idiot. It's fu…"

"Language, Bors," sighed Arthur wearily, scrubbing at his sleep-deprived eyes with a limp hand. They'd been riding for hours, having quickened the pace after discovering the camp full of dead Picts. Arthur had absolutely no idea what was going on, unable to think clearly due to the constant squabbling between Lancelot and Galahad, Bors' filthy language, and Gawain's constant morose commentary on the whole sorry situation. All the Commander knew was that he had to find his two Knights and bring them back to the Wall safely. That was all he cared about right now.

"Who'd like to place a bet on our time of death?" called Gawain suddenly, as they were all bending down looking for any sign of a trail. _Not an iron-shod hoofprint in sight, _groaned Arthur internally._ Curses upon curses. _

"I'll bet two siliquae on… three hours hence," said Lancelot drily, poking around in some bare, twiggy bushes.

"Tight-arse," rumbled Bors, chuckling to himself, "I'll put four on two hours from now."

"Can we try to be more positive, Knights?" called Arthur, from where he was examining some animal tracks beside a nearby stream. "I'll place five on us making it back to the Wall safe and unharmed."

"You really don't understand the concept of betting, do you Arthur?" said Lancelot, smirking. "You're supposed to place likely bets that will actually _earn_ you money. Or are you being a good Christian and providing alms for us poor, pagan Sarmatians?"

Dagonet cuffed Lancelot soundly over the ear. "Show some respect, lad."

"Yeah, Curly," called Bors.

"At least I have hair!" snapped Lancelot, his face darkening.

"You're so precious about your hair, anyone'd think you were a woman," remarked Gawain mildly, crouching down to examine a patch of disturbed ground.

"Oh, that's the pot calling the kettle black!" said Lancelot, starting forward threateningly. "Your hair is…"

"I've found the trail!" cried Galahad excitedly, beckoning them over. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, and not only because his Knights had momentarily stopped their bickering. Sure enough, two sets of iron-shod hoofprints were leading off into a thicket of dense trees. The youngest Knight beamed as Arthur clapped him on the back.

"Good work," the Commander said, heaving himself into the saddle once more. "Let's follow that trail!"

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**A/N: Ooh, SO tempted to insert an El Dorado quote in there… ;D**

**A bit of a quick update this time, but oh well. Ah, the joys of having a cold and little to do! Thanks again for your reviews – they're really helpful, and please do let me know if there's anything I should improve in this story. While I enjoy writing it, I also want to make it enjoyable for people like you to read :) Hope you liked this chapter!**


	13. Revelations and Realisations

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**Chapter Thirteen: Revelations and Realisations **

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The sun descended slowly through the cold skies, its wintry rays gradually dimming as it neared the horizon. Long shadows were cast out behind the skeletal trees, and the last remaining clumps of snow looked like dirty lumps of bone, crowded in the small ditches and valleys. The wind whistled continuously in Mordred's ears. The cold was deepening. Night was coming.

And still, Tristran did not speak.

Mordred watched the scout ride up ahead, his posture relaxed and graceful as always. Bow strapped across his back, curved sword sheathed at his waist, Tristran gave off an air of dangerous readiness. His dark cloak flapped out behind him, snapping occasionally in the strong gusts of wind that hurtled down from the northern highlands. His words repeated themselves over and over in Mordred's head; their cold reprimand reinforced by the scout's continuing silence. As they continued to ride, following the lead of Banna and Tristran, the first stars began to appear in the icy skies above them; tiny specks of bright-burning frost, or so it seemed.

Tristran remained silent.

They had stopped four times that day since leaving their temporary camp. Twice to rest and forage for food, twice to search for the increasingly elusive trail. The land was becoming hillier; snow-capped mountains, that had once loomed in the distance, coming ever closer. Grainne and Fearghus were the only ones who spoke, and even their conversation faltered after a little while. So the five riders continued north, their passage signalled only by the beat of their horses' hooves, and the flapping of Mordred and Tristran's cloaks in the wind. The sun finally set, and darkness settled over the land like slow-dripping syrup.

And Tristran spoke not a word.

Not a single, damned word.

Mordred was just about ready to throw himself off his horse in guilt and shame. No, shame was not a strong enough word – humiliation, perhaps? Mortification? Once again, he had spoken rashly; his words spraying viciously out of his mouth like blood from a cut artery_. _Why did he never _think_? For years, he had thought he had Tristran all figured out: a surly, bad-tempered loner, possessed with ridiculously perceptive senses. He had thought Tristran hated every one of the Knights except Arthur and Percival; that the scout couldn't care less if any of them lived or died.

He had been a fool.

The signs had been there all along. The scout, whose constant presence in the background had always irked him somewhat, had been watching over them, like one of those ancient Roman domestic gods. Now that Mordred thought about it, he could not even _count_ the number of times the scout had put his life at risk for his countrymen. Shaking his head in shame, he remembered Galahad's first battle.

_The air was thick with dying men's screams, heavy with the cloying scent of blood. Cries for help were choked off by the meaty thunk of axes; pitiful wails of pain rose above the cacophony of noise. Mordred looked around, wiping a string of something bloody from his face. Where were his brothers? Ah, there were Bors and Dagonet. Off to the left, Agravaine cut down a Woad with a furious roar. Behind him, he could hear Arthur yelling instructions, and Lancelot ran past him unexpectedly, brandishing his twin blades. And then he saw Galahad._

_Time seemed to slow around Mordred as he saw the young boy – not a day over ten winters – slide his sword into the gut of a blue-painted Woad. The man screamed like a stuck pig, causing even Mordred's hardened stomach to churn queasily. Galahad yanked his sword out after a brief struggle, and then collapsed to the ground, vomiting violently. Mordred wanted to help him, but suddenly, two Woads leapt on him from behind, tearing him to the ground. They tussled in the dirt, a flurry of stabs and strikes. Finally, the two blue warriors lay dead and bloodied on the ground, and Mordred got up and moved on, forgetting about Galahad in the rush of blood-lust coursing through his veins. _

_Time passed. It could have been days, seasons, minutes: Mordred did not know, or care. The world had been reduced to him and his sword, and an ever-changing cycle of opponents to join him in the brutal dance of combat. By chance, he looked off to his side as he swiftly beheaded a burly Woad._

_Galahad was sprawled on the ground, his sword lying useless beside him. _

_Mordred felt as though he'd been gutted. Was the boy dead? He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Galahad's chest rise, praising the gods that the lad seemed to be merely unconscious. As he glanced up from Galahad's prone body, Mordred flinched in surprise as he noticed Tristran. As Woad after Woad rushed at the defenceless boy, Tristran killed them neatly and efficiently, spilling not a drop of blood on Galahad or himself, standing above Galahad's body like one of Arthur's "avenging angels". _

_Even when the fighting began to slow down, the scout did not move on. He did not leave Galahad. _

_At the end of the battle, it was Tristran who carried the boy back to the horses. It was Tristran who wrapped Galahad in his own thick cloak. The boy rode back to the Wall seated in front of Tristran, on Tristran's horse. Tristran knelt by the well and helped Galahad wash the blood from his small body when they arrived back at their post. It was Tristran who gave up his leisure time to teach Galahad how to use a bow. Tristran, who was only sixteen._

_And Mordred and the other Knights had teased him for his kindness. _

The memory brought a fresh wave of shame crashing down on the second-in-command. Without Tristran's help, Galahad would have died that day. He wouldn't have grown up to be the best horseman of all the Knights; wouldn't have become one of their best archers, second only to Tristran. The more he thought about the cantankerous scout, the more Mordred realised that every one of the Knights, including himself, owed their lives to Tristran. And how had they repaid him? For years, they had avoided him, and mocked him behind his back to varying degrees. The scout's words pummelled him mercilessly, the sheer selflessness of them making Mordred want to shrivel into a tiny ball of disgrace. _I want to keep you all safe; I want us to return to Sarmatia together._

"I'm so sorry, Tristran," he whispered, the bitterly cold night air stinging his face. "I'm so, so sorry."

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Tristran rode along in silence, occasional bursts of anger, hurt and embarrassment making his stomach clench uneasily. He wasn't one for verbal confrontation, preferring to settle disagreements with a neat, quick scuffle. His opponents usually left him alone after that, and he went on his way feeling guiltless and satisfied. Arthur had given up on reprimanding him, but the scout could sense the contained disapproval in the Commander's eyes when yet another Roman stumbled off to the healer's rooms. Arthur favoured war with words, taking up a sword as his very last resort.

_I don't know how you do it, Arthur, _thought Tristran, watching as a rock dove shifted solemnly on a leafy branch. _A good beating provides much better…closure. _

Gods knew that was what he felt like giving Mordred right now, anyway. He'd preferred the man when he was an ignorant, cheerful idiot. Did the second-in-command think that Tristran didn't _notice _the tortured sighs, the guilty gazes? No one had benefited from the argument: Mordred appeared to be stewing in a virtual cauldron of torment, Tristran felt even more alone than he had before, and the Picts were treating him as though he'd spontaneously explode at any second. Sweet Mother, none of this angst ever came from a good bout of fisticuffs.

"Tristran," called Grainne, cantering up to draw level with the scout.

Tristran gently tugged at the reins, slowing his exhausted horse to a gradual walk. "Whoa," he murmured to her, patting her neck gently. "Easy, now." The dapple-grey tossed her head and snorted, flanks heaving. Tristran felt a surge of guilt as he gave his faithful companion some rein, allowing her to walk at her own pace as he turned to face the blonde Woad. _If only we had fresh horses, _he thought, scratching the mare's heavy winter coat softly. His only consolation was that their quarry appeared to have no fresh horses either, Murchadh's men slowing down considerably in the last hour before twilight. _We're closing in. _

Grainne nodded to him as she approached, the half-dark of twilight shadowing her painted face strangely, and darkening her charcoal-rimmed eyes. "We need to rest," she said, stretching her back slightly in the saddle with a groan. "Fearghus slid off his pony not long ago, you know. He wasn't injured, only bruised, but… he's tired, Tristran." _We all are. _She didn't need to say the words for the scout to understand. Perhaps the pace he had been setting was a little hard.

"I'll scout ahead for shelter," he said, but the leader held up her hand.

"Banna will go," she said quietly. "The area here is decidedly more… hostile… to any sign of foreigners." She eyed his curved swords and his Sarmatian bow with clear disapproval. "That includes you."

Tristran shrugged, too weary to bother defying the controlling blonde Pict. "Better hurry," he said, scratching at a smear of dried blood on the sleeve of his tunic. "The distance between us and them is lessening."

"For now. It will get difficult soon," said Grainne, her tone foreboding. Tristran frowned.

"What do you mean?" he asked, trying to think of possible dangers. Apart from the fact that the land was crawling with murderous Woads.

"Mountains," replied the leader. "We'll begin to start climbing the hills soon enough. I won't be surprised if Murchadh's planning to go even further north, into the highlands."

"But doesn't that Seer woman live in the far north?" asked Tristran, confused. "Surely her allies would stop Murchadh and his men from kidnapping her own grandson?"

Grainne snorted. "You assume that all Caledonians are friends? Most of us despise one another!" She chuckled darkly. "If faced in battle by a Roman and a warrior from one of the north-eastern tribes, I'd have trouble deciding who to kill first."

"Roman, definitely," muttered Tristran under his breath. "But it would depend on whether you wanted a decent fight or not."

"Mm. Probably north-eastern, then. The Fisher King's men always put in a good effort," said Grainne, flashing Tristran a blood-curdling grin. _I could almost like her, _thought Tristran approvingly, _if only I hadn't fought against her in the past. _For all he knew, it could have been one of her arrows that punctured Agravaine's lung, or her knife that had spilled Cai's entrails across the frozen ground. Grainne turned her horse away, and cantered back down the line to talk to the tracker. A moment later, Banna galloped past him on her indefatigable grey pony, bravely forging a path into the gathering darkness and danger. _Is that Mordred's Sarmatian bow strapped to her back? _He was too distracted to care.

This new information from Grainne was troubling, and Tristran glanced around their small group with fresh unease. If relations between the tribes of Picts were as bad as the blonde leader hinted, their mission was even more perilous than he had thought. The presence of the three Picts in their hunting party would not keep them safe at all; perhaps even endangering them further. And in his current state of emotional distraction, he simply could not afford heightened danger.

_Thankyou, Grainne, _he thought sarcastically, staring hard into the hazy dusk that surrounded them. _I may as well take first watch; as I, for one, will not be sleeping tonight. _Somewhere, faint and very far away, an owl called.

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"Look at these markings, Arthur," called Dagonet unexpectedly, gesturing for the Commander to come over. The Knights had stopped for a short break, their leg muscles aching from the long ride.

"It looks like someone's…" began Arthur, frowning as he bent down to examine the odd shape in the dirt.

"…fallen off their horse," finished Lancelot, crouching down beside Arthur. The Commander fought the urge to groan. Of all the times for Lancelot to come and pester him. But the curly-haired Knight did not follow up his observation with any cheeky comment, instead standing up once more and surveying their surroundings with a critical eye. "Not Tristran or Mordred, though," he continued, pointing to the hoofprints around the scuffled mark. "The horse isn't shod."

"Assuming that they're still in possession of their own horses," murmured Dagonet thoughtfully, as Bors strode over.

"What 'ave we here?" he enquired gruffly, his jovial mood wearing off. Arthur knew the feeling.

"Someone's fallen off their horse," he replied, shrugging. "So it seems. I think we're getting closer."

Bors grunted. "What I want to know is why they're off gallivanting across the wilderness with three Woads. 'Ave they been kidnapped? Are we being led into a trap? We'd better bloody well find them, that's all I can say."

"When do you think we'll catch up with them, Arthur?" asked Lancelot, his brow creased slightly with concern.

"Soon," said the Commander tiredly, "I hope." The other Knights grunted in agreement.

"I'd kill for an ale," grumbled Bors, seemingly finding more to say after all. "An' one of Van's…"

"We don't need to know, Bors," said Galahad quickly, cutting the older Knight off with a disturbed look.

Bors chuckled. "I was _goin' _to say fruit loaves, but now that you mention it…"

"Enough!" said Arthur, raising his voice. "Come on, it's time we're off again." Ignoring the chorus of groans that followed his order, he wearily hauled his aching body into the saddle. _If I don't rest soon, __**I'll **__be the one falling off my horse, _he thought ruefully.

"What's that noise?" exclaimed Galahad suddenly, holding up his hand in an effort to silence the Knights. Everyone fell quiet, listening carefully.

"Just an owl, pup," said Lancelot at last, breaking the silence. "And far away at that. You're becoming quite the scout."

"Yeah, Tristran'll 'ave to take you on as 'is full-time apprentice," joked Bors, causing Galahad's pale cheeks to flush slightly.

"If he's still alive," muttered Gawain sullenly, checking his axe was properly strapped to his back.

"What, are you going to kill him rather than give Galahad up?" teased Lancelot as they nudged their horses into a trot.

"Knights…" called Arthur warningly for about the twelfth time that day. "We need to cooperate. Keep a look-out, I've heard this is dangerous territory around here." Perhaps he should have bought more of the Knights with him, after all. He had told Ector, Lamorak and Bedivere to return back to the Wall, and report to the Roman supervisors at their post. No doubt the Romans would be highly displeased with Arthur and his foolhardy actions.

_Surely we'll find them soon, though, _thought Arthur, narrowing his eyes as he stared into the misty purple twilight. _Surely we must be getting closer. _

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**A/N: I know the Fisher King isn't meant to have ruled in north-eastern Scotland, and nor was he meant to have been around at the time when this story was set, but I hope you don't mind too much :) **

**Hope you're enjoying, and I'd be really grateful if you left a review to tell me how you think the story's going! Hugs and thanks to my faithful reviewers out there, you guys are the best :) **


	14. Cuffs and Creeping

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**Chapter Fourteen: Cuffs and Creeping**

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Banna rode into the darkness, revelling in the bite of the wind on her face and the cold air searing her lungs. The rest of her body was warm, however, and not only due to the thick, comfortable covering of the warm skins and pelts that she wore. They were getting closer to Murchadh and the other traitors. They were getting closer to Cathalan. As she scanned the trees around her for any signs of danger, Banna smiled faintly as she imagined Fearghus' face when the two friends were finally reunited.

_If Cathalan is still alive. _Her smile faded away as quickly as it had come.

She squinted as the trees ahead tossed in the wind, sending a volley of small leaves and grit straight into her face. Gods, she wished this gale would die down. Her night vision was quite good, but it was damnably hard to notice any suspicious movements when _everything _around her was moving. She slowed Peigi to a walk as they approached a stretch of particularly thickly-clustered trees. The shadows here were deeper. Quietly, Banna slid the axe from the makeshift sheath on her back, and held it lightly in her right hand. Listening carefully, she urged Peigi forward. The little mare, to her credit, made no sound as they ventured into the menacing shade.

Dead pine needles coated the ground beneath their feet, and a resinous scent filled the air. The wind barely penetrated the trees here; the leaves and needles of the strong-limbed evergreens clinging stoically to their posts through the long winters, and creating strange glades where the light was ever dim and mossy. Pale lichens furred branches and fallen logs, and if she listened carefully, Banna could hear the sound of a faraway stream murmuring to itself. Dismounting, she led Peigi through a thick patch of ferns, dried brown and scratchy from the winter. Without the constant hissing of wind-thrashed bushes to cover her passage, the tracker winced at the horribly conspicuous crackling and crunching of the ferns as she and Peigi brushed through. The grey mare tossed her head nervously, lifting her hooves high as Banna led her through the treacherous stretch of dead bushes, watching carefully for rabbit holes. Or worse. A sheltered woodland glade such as this made a good refuge for any number of creatures, humans included. Taking a deep breath, Banna tried to relax as she let her eyes wander over her surroundings.

_Crunch._

Both she and Peigi froze at the unexpected sound. Banna dropped to a fighting crouch, mentally cursing herself for bringing her grey mare this far into the glade. In the surrounding dark, Peigi's snowy-pale coat seemed to glow faintly, making her an easy target.

_Crunch. _

The sound came from up ahead this time, closer than it had been before. Biting her lip, Banna gripped the axe tightly and shuffled forward, still in a crouching position. She needed to get Peigi away. Taking another deep breath, Banna reached up and slapped the mare hard on the rump, wincing at the loud _whap _of contact. But it did the trick – Peigi, already nervous and highly-strung, was off like an arrow into the darkness with a squeal of fright. Hopefully, she'd find her way back to Grainne and the others. _But that's unlikely, and you know it, _thought Banna, as she shuffled forward a little more, her heart thudding wildly. The unfamiliar sturdy weight of the axe in her hand did nothing whatsoever to reassure her.

_Crunch. Crunch. _

_Gods be good, what is making that noise? _Banna thought, the hairs rising all along her arms and a frisson of panic stirring in her gut. It sounded like thick branches snapping, or bones cracking…

_Crunch. _

Closer now. Banna adjusted her grip on the axe carefully, wrapping her fingers around the smooth wooden haft. She needed to get back to the others, warn them not to come this way. But it was too late to get away, now. Whatever it was that was stalking forward was too close, so close that she thought she could hear it breathing. She listened hard, her eyes desperately trying to pick out any discerning clues in the darkness. Nothing.

Then, into the ominous silence, someone laughed nastily.

A shudder of horror crawled slowly over Banna's skin, the fact that she could neither see nor precisely locate the source of the laugh only intensifying her fear. The chuckle had been deep, undoubtedly that of a man, and darkly amused. Banna had hunted in the night many times, and had felt fear before dangerous prey, like the madly-charging wild boar, or a lurking pack of wolves. But this… this was different. Something – no, some_one _– was out there in the darkness, stalking her like an animal. _Laughing. _An almost primal terror began to bloom through Banna, like a drop of dye spreading in a pool of still water.

_Crunch._

Banna's breath came quick and quiet, her heart thudding so hard she could feel it in her throat. _Help me, _she wanted to whisper, but she would not allow herself to make a sound. _Help me. _

The chuckle came again, a note of madness to it that rooted Banna to the spot.

_Crunch._

The glade was dark, and the branches blocked out the wind, the moon, the world.

_Help me. _Banna pressed herself to the ground and waited, ready to spring up and swing out with the axe. The ferns crackled as someone brushed through them, coming ever closer, closer…

_Crunch._

Banna held her breath, and prayed.

_Oh gods, please, somebody __**help**__ me. _

But the glade was dark, and quiet, and she knew that she was horribly alone.

Well, almost.

_Crunch._

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Mordred bit into the dreadfully stale, water-dipped bannock with a grimace of distaste. _At least it's food, _he reminded himself wearily as he sat alone on the damp grass, wondering when Banna would be back. She had been gone for a very long time, and he was beginning to worry. _For goodness' sake, _he thought sternly, _I shouldn't be worrying about a __**Woad. **_But he was. And his worry was worrying him. Two worries he really did not need at this point in time, but there it was. The darkness had fallen quickly, and Banna was out there alone. And the bread in his mouth was horribly stale. Arthur was probably worried about them. _Oh, gods above, _Mordred groaned internally. _Can I ever follow a logical thought pattern? _

"She's been gone too long," said Tristran unexpectedly, sitting down beside him and peering into the distance, eyebrows drawn tightly together. Mordred jumped guiltily at the sound of the scout's voice, heat flooding his cheeks.

"Banna?" he said, swallowing, glancing at Tristran.

Tristran rolled his eyes. "No, your mother," he replied sarcastically. "Of course I'm talking about the tracker, you fool. I'd better go after her."

Mordred shook his head immediately. "No, you can't," he said without thinking, rubbing a hand over his wind-burnt face. Tristran raised an eyebrow eloquently, and their earlier conversation came flooding back. _I want to keep you all safe; I want us to return to Sarmatia together. _Mordred swallowed guiltily. "Listen, Tristran, about before…"

Tristran sighed under his breath. "Drop it," he said, in his usual brusque manner. "With the way you've been carrying on all afternoon, I wish I hadn't said anything."

"I was an idiot, Tristran," continued Mordred, forcing himself to look the scout in the eye unflinchingly. _He deserves that much, in the very least. _"And I'm sorry. I've treated you badly over all the years we've known each other, and while I don't expect you to forgive me, I…"

Tristran leaned over and cuffed him on the side of the head. Hard.

"Argh!" exclaimed Mordred in surprise, lurching sideways. He scowled accusingly at Tristran, who gave him a bland, mildly amused look before biting into a lump of…something.

"You're an idiot, Mordred," he said through his mouthful, wiping his beard. "Don't see why I didn't think to hit you earlier. Would have saved me all those hours filled with your anguished sighs." He glanced over at the second-in-command, a flicker of amusement crossing his serious face.

"Tristran, take this seriously," implored Mordred, straightening up and leaning forward. "You can't just dismiss something like…"

"I can, and I will," said Tristran firmly, taking another bite of his unidentifiable food. "I'm not dismissing it, though. You're an idiot, but you're my brother." He shrugged at Mordred's puzzled look. "Brothers forgive, eh? But never talk about Arthur like that again, understood?"

Mordred nodded, ignoring the lack of respect in Tristran's tone. It didn't matter anymore. "Yes," he replied quietly.

Tristran grunted, stretching out his legs. "Better find her, then," he said, cocking his head from one side to the other and cracking his neck. Mordred stood up quickly, checking that all his weapons were present and accounted for.

"We'll all come," he announced. "If there's any danger, at least you'll have us there to back you up."

Tristran shrugged. "Suppose so. Let's get going then, eh?" He clapped Mordred on the shoulder as he stood up, holding his lump of food in the other hand. The clap on the shoulder sent a flood of relief through Mordred, the firm companionship in it communicating a forgiveness that words could not express. It was not total forgiveness, but it was a start.

Mordred felt a surge of affection for the grumpy scout. "Tristran, I…"

"Shut up," said Tristran succinctly. "I'm trying to eat."

Mordred stifled a grin, and strode off to tell Grainne and Fearghus to get ready. As he made his way over to the two Picts, however, his worries about Banna came creeping back in once more. Things might be improving between him and Tristran, and that was a great comfort – but Banna was out there in the darkened forest. And she had been gone for far too long. As he saddled his horse beside Fearghus, the lad's face worried and pale, Mordred couldn't help but imagine all sorts of dreadful scenarios in which Banna had been hurt, or captured, or had lost her way…

_Stop. Worrying. _

He pursed his lips firmly in pain as he clambered up into the saddle. His side was still troubling him, and he kept forgetting to ask Tristran to fix the bindings. Not that there was time for that sort of thing, anyway. Still, the faint stain of blood seeping through his tunic was a _little_ concerning. As they rode off once more into the darkness, sore and on the brink of exhaustion, Mordred sighed.

_Well, at least Arthur and the others are safe back at the Wall, _he thought, privately thanking whatever deity gave his Commander that famously sensible – if slightly idealistic – brain. _I can count on him not to do anything foolhardy, such as taking off after us across Caledonia._

He grinned at the very thought. _Ludicrous. Right now, they're probably sitting at the tavern drinking ale, bored out of their minds. _

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"This is bloody ludicrous! We should be at the tavern right now, drinking ale!" exclaimed Lancelot, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"We'd be bored out of our minds," muttered Dagonet. "This is a much nobler use of our time."

"I don't give a fu…"

"Language, Bors," sighed Arthur.

They'd lost the trail. Again.

"Damn Tristran and his scouting skills!" exploded Gawain, picking up a pine cone and throwing it violently into the trees. "I cannot believe we've lost them _yet again. _Just when we think we're about to catch up with them, _Curly _there decides that we're following the _wrong trail._"

"It was too narrow, it didn't look like…"

"Go home! The tavern wenches are the only ones who even vaguely appreciate your existence, you pathetic…"

"Gawain, you're being a bit harsh," cut in Galahad bravely. Gawain swung around to snap at him, but Arthur stepped in just in time.

"Men!" he growled warningly, his patience reaching breaking point. "We continue north-west, as that seems to be the direction in which Mordred and Tristran have been travelling. With luck, we'll run into them – _if we keep up the pace._ Get back on your horses, and let's continue." The men grumbled and muttered to themselves as they trudged back to their horses wearily, mounting up gingerly and, in Bors' case, loudly. _I'm getting too old for this, _thought Arthur to himself, trying to find a position in which his rear end didn't feel as though it was about to be chafed right back to the bone.

They continued into the darkness, a silent column weaving its way through the tree-crowded forest. The sky above them slowly filled with stars, glittering brightly in the sudden absence of cloud and mist. Arthur watched their surroundings as carefully as possible, but after so many hours of riding, even he was close to exhaustion. The only positive thing he could find about the thick blanket of fatigue that had settled over him and his Knights was that it seemed to have stopped the bickering. For now. The trees soon became more densely packed together, and the Sarmatians and their Commander were constantly whipped and snapped by small twigs and branches. Their horses made their way forward uncertainly, tossing their heads and snorting at the small unexpected sounds of the night forest. Arthur too was listening carefully, but after spending his entire life in the glens and woods that covered the island of Britannia, he was used to the noises made by passing animals, and the lonely creaking of the trees in the wind.

Up ahead, Galahad pointed out a small stream from which they could draw some drinking water. As the Knights dismounted, pulling out their flasks and water-skins, Arthur walked off to inspect the trees ahead. A thick belt of them lay before him, densely packed with ferns and other small bushes. Undoing the laces of his bracae, Arthur gazed vacantly into the wall of foliage as he relieved himself, listening indifferently to the rustlings of some small animal making its way through the ferns. He could barely see the stars above him, now, so thick was the canopy above. As he did his laces up once more, he imagined lying on the top of the trees, watching the endless sheet of stars above his head as he drifted off to sleep peacefully, the wind soft across his body. With a fond smile, he remembered Pelagius' lessons about the stars, their names and meanings, their hidden secrets…

Arthur froze. The sound that had just issued from the trees was made by no animal.

No animal that _he _knew of chuckled like a man.

Dropping to a defensive crouch, he edged his way through the long grass to the source of the noise. Making as little rustling as possible, he pushed aside the dry, crackled fronds of dead fern and springy bracken as he peered into the intimidating dark of a small glade, ringed on all sides by thick trunks of evergreens. Little moonlight was admitted into the clearing, but it was enough for the Commander to see. Not five spans ahead of him, partially shielded by the long shadow of a towering pine, stood a tall man holding a longspear.

_Pict._

Arthur drew in a long, deep breath as he watched the man stalk forward, chuckling coldly all the while. He was hunting something; that at least was evident. But what? Surely an animal would have tried to make its escape by now, but perhaps it was paralysed – either by fear, or by a fatal wound. Arthur edged further forward, sliding his sword infinitesimally slowly from its sheath. The slightest scrape of metal on metal could betray him. The man wore a shaggy, dark fur slung across his upper torso, belted at the waist; and dark trousers with boots laced up to his knee. The longspear he held in his hand was a common weapon among the Picts, but even without it, the man was clearly one of _them. _A shaft of moonlight illuminated his long, tangled hair; limed white and ghostly-looking. The Pict appeared to have reached what he was hunting, for now he was circling around it closely, muttering under his breath. Whatever it was that he had trapped, it was quite big. Arthur finally crawled right through the encumbering ferns and bracken, and emerged on the other side of the clearing, just as the man feinted forward at his unseen prey. The creature let out a small cry, startling Arthur, and leapt up in a flurry of movement, swinging an axe at the… the… _Wait… an __**axe**__? _

_Oh, God! _thought Arthur, leaping to his feet in horror and dashing forward to help. _He's been hunting a __**woman**__!_

At Arthur's aggressive shout, the man swung around in surprise, the axe missing him by the width of a fingernail. The woman growled wildly, the momentum of the swing throwing her off balance and sending her staggering into the ferns once more. Arthur took advantage of the man's momentary confusion to barrel forward and tackle him to the ground, throwing his entire body weight into the leap and pinning the Pict to the pine needle-strewn ground. The man struggled wildly, shouting for all he was worth.

"You…mongrel…" hissed Arthur, as he tried to slice his sword at the man's throat, "How dare…you…"

They tussled wildly on the ground, joined suddenly by the weight of another body. The woman had thrown herself into the fray with another crazed shout, pinning one of the Pict's arms to the ground as Arthur grabbed the other. Together, they flipped him over, twisting his arms up behind his back. The woman grabbed the Pict's head and slammed it into the ground with a brutal violence that shocked Arthur, despite the satisfying crunch the man's nose made as its bones shattered. Arthur continued to hold the man to the ground as she leaned forward and spat on the side of the Pict's face, snarling something threatening in… oh.

She was also a Pict.

The woman drew back, and then slammed her elbow into the man's temple viciously, knocking him unconscious. Arthur stared at her in horror, scrambling back and drawing his sword. _What kind of animal was this woman? _

"_Artorius_! _Rus_!" yelled Bors, crashing into the clearing with a fierce war cry. He stopped short as he beheld the sight before him, and was almost bowled over by the force of Gawain tumbling into him at full pelt from behind.

"Arthur… what?" gasped the long-haired Knight, as Galahad appeared at his side, bow at the ready. At the sight of the woman kneeling on the ground beside Arthur, he bared his teeth and nocked an arrow to the bowstring, aiming it at her throat.

"Arthur!" exclaimed Dagonet, as he and Lancelot burst into the clearing, respective weapons drawn.

As everyone stood staring at everyone else, frozen in indecision, a crashing came from the other side of the clearing. Hoofbeats were approaching quickly, but before Arthur could do anything, a man barrelled into the clearing partially mounted, brandishing a sword threateningly as he hung precariously onto his horse's mane. He leapt from the saddle and stumbled slightly as he lurched forward, calling out something in Pictish.

"Mordred?" yelled Arthur incredulously, recognising the stumbling man instantly. Mordred stopped short, his mouth dropping open.

"Arthur?" he gasped, fumbling as he almost dropped his sword. "What are you… who is… what?" Behind him, three more figures appeared from the semi-darkness, weapons held at the ready.

"Tristran?" Arthur called, squinting in an effort to see. The scout strode forward, his fluid gait identifying him immediately.

"Arthur!" Tristran said, his voice low and angry. "What are you doing here?"

"And please tell me they're with you," added Mordred, pointing to a spot behind Arthur, an odd look on his face.

"Of course they are! Can't you see? It's Bors, Lancelot, Gawain…"

"Noo…" said Mordred slowly, still pointing. "I meant those men with the arrows pointed at all of us."

Arthur whirled around in shock, only to be met with the sight of at least fifteen Picts standing behind his Knights, longbows trained on each person in the clearing.

"Oh, buggeration," brayed Bors loudly, dropping his weapons and holding his hands in the air as the armed Picts strode forward.

Arthur couldn't have said it better himself.

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**A/N: Sorry about the long wait for this, everyone! Hope you enjoyed, and that you're not too confused or anything :) Do leave some feedback and tell me what you thought of this chapter – the big, joyous reunion… or not. Thankyou again to the wonderful people who review, your feedback is very encouraging :)**


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